


Broken Kiss

by suninwinter37



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't Mess with Gods, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Is this a kissing book?, Mistakes, Pydia, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Teen Wolf Goes to the Underworld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 28,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suninwinter37/pseuds/suninwinter37
Summary: Peter Hale was mad with the need for vengeance when he tore into Lydia Martin, awakening her latent banshee abilities. He was desperate when he used the power of his bite to force her to resurrect him. Now that he's in control of his mind, she's the one bright thing that he cannot ignore.Lydia's life was turned upside down and torn apart, first by Peter Hale then by the loss of her first love and best friend. Unstable banshee powers are a curse for the intelligent, logical young woman, though she refuses to let anybody else see how much she's unraveling. And, among all her uncontrollable feelings, the way she's drawn to Peter is the craziest.She should hate him. He shouldn't care at all for the collateral damage in his past. But they can't stay apart. Will Peter's nature - his hunger for power and drive to possess - break Lydia, or will she tame the beast that may not be a monster after all?
Relationships: Hades/Persephone, Peter Hale/Lydia Martin
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

Life was a series of problems and opportunities. Lydia Martin had always known that, even before it was spelled out to her, even before she realized that she could solve the problems more quickly than most people. Usually that made her feel good, but not when the solutions evaded her.

Meredith had been broken, turned into a hot mess who had then unleashed her crazy on Beacon Hills. Maybe all banshees ended up crazy. Lydia felt it sometimes, and not just when she heard the voices. She was detaching more and more frequently, looking up to find herself in another room. Moving past people without seeing them, without hearing them.

She rubbed at her eyes, refusing to remove her compact from her purse. Her eyes would be bloodshot. Her mascara would be smeared. She’d look tired. She’d look…lost. And that idea pissed her right off. Martins were always put together, as perfect as perfect could be.

Stiles was asleep in the chair behind her, head hanging back, arms and legs sprawling. She closed his laptop and stood, blinking in the darkness of his room. Lydia wasn’t the only one who’d been affected by the madness that had infected Beacon Hills. Stiles played it off, what had happened to him, but he’d lost some of his playfulness. When he wasn’t trying to act normal, his eyes were dark. Haunted. Malia was good for him. She was a distraction and – Lydia couldn’t help but roll her eyes – she didn’t think too deeply. Stiles needed that. He needed something light. Lydia hadn’t felt light in months. Not since she’d started hearing voice, and Jackson had left, then Allison…

She slipped out of the house. The sheriff was gone, hopefully occupied with only ordinary crime. They all needed a break.

Water beaded on the grass of the lawn and the windshield of her car. The night air was chill with water and the promise of fall. Lydia reached for the door handle, then froze.

“You shouldn’t be out alone at night,” a man said from behind her. Fear ran through her, a cold jolt through her entire body. And then, because it was him, something else followed, something hot and needy and just as strong as her fear.

But the problem – one of the problems with Peter Hale – was that you could never, ever trust him. Even if you wanted to. Even if you could remember what he was like when he was focused only on you, seducing you, kissing you.

Lydia turned around, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

He stood a few feet away, a silhouette outside of the range of the porch light. But she would always know him. He stepped forward, his blue eyes catching the light.

“Maybe I just want to make sure you’re all right, Lydia.” His eyebrows rose, his expression faintly mocking. “Beacon Hills is a dangerous place, especially at night.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

“I do, indeed. I’ve been fighting monsters for years.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

He made a sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, just acknowledging she’d spoken. Then he smiled, and her trembling had nothing to do with fear. He took a step closer. It wasn’t obtrusive. She’d had men come on strong. She’d had all kinds of things trying to intimidate her lately. But he stayed a few steps away, his hands linked behind his back in a way that made the muscles in his arms seem like they were chiseled out of stone. He appeared so strong, so sure of himself, and she felt anything but that.

“You look-”

She threw her hands up, her bag bumping against her side. “I am not in the mood for you to judge my appearance. Not that you have any right to. Why don’t you just say whatever it is you snuck out here to say and leave me alone.”

He moved so fast when he wanted to, ending up right in front of her, his eyes bright as the wolf rose behind them. Then his expression softened as it moved from her eyes to her mouth. He’d kissed her before, when she was drifting through the haze of his bite, following the orders she’d never heard him say. She could feel his gaze now, wanted to reach out and touch her own lips. Touch his.

And then she was doing it, watching her fingers glide along his generous lower lip. His breath hitched before the heat of it ghosted over her fingertips. She needed to get away from him, but when his hands closed around her waist, all she could do was lean closer.

“I was going to say you look beautiful.” His hand slid up her back and neck, winding into her hair. “You always look so damn beautiful.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed as his mouth slid over hers. It was a chaste kiss, not like some teenage boy trying to plow into her. His lips were soft, gentle, as they pressed against hers. But she could feel the hunger he was controlling. His fingers clenched around her waist and in her hair, pulling the strands tight until it almost hurt. She’d seen him out of control, but he was trying to be gentle with her. He tilted his head, kissing her jaw, lower. He made a sound against her neck, a low rumble that shook her to her bones. She jerked back, not enough to escape his arms, but enough that cool air replaced the heat of his hard chest against hers.

“What are you doing to me?” she asked, terrified that somehow he’d taken control of her again. There was no way she could be wanting him like this. There wasn’t!

He looked up, bright blue gaze clashing with her own. He shook his head, appearing as mystified as she felt.

“I could ask you the same,” he murmured, brow furrowed. “Banshees aren’t known to beguile. So it must be all you, Lydia.”

Her heart tripped, and his smile was heartbreakingly sweet. His hand unraveled from her hair, massaging her neck before it slid away, and she nearly fell against him it felt so good.

She opened her mouth, wanting to yell at him. Wanting to deny him. She was a master at telling people off, but no words came out. He stepped back into the shadows as Sheriff Stilinksi’s cruiser rolled down the street.

“Good night, Lydia,” Peter said. “Keep yourself safe.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deputy Parrish has questions, and this town is too small for Peter Hale.

Peter never should have gone to the girl, and he knew it. Fragile as she was, Lydia wasn’t safe for him. She was too smart, too insistent, too damn passionate. His claws sprang from his hands and Peter flexed then curled his hands, trying to force them to retract as he walked the main street of Beacon Hills. High school kids burst out of an ice cream shop, the boys posturing, playing at being tough. The girls giggled, urging them on.

Lydia wasn’t like that, hadn’t been like that before her transformation, though she’d tried to play the part. He barely remembered biting her, his blood had been boiling for so long. For years, he’d lived on a diet of vengeance and pain. Then her sweet blood had crossed her tongue, snapping him awake, but by then it was too late to stop.

He wanted her, but for one floating moment, he wondered what it would be like to win her. Better to eliminate thoughts like that. There was nothing to gain by winning her. She had money, but not enough to matter to him. And her power was too unstable to wager on. Without money or power, she was useless to him. A distraction, nothing more.

He had to get the girl out of his mind.

“Mr. Hale?” a man asked.

His lip curled, but Peter smoothed his expression before he turned. He needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t anyone important. The deputy. Barely more than a pup, but with that same earnestness that Sheriff Stilinski possessed. Was there anything more despicable than an earnest man?

“My name is Jordan Parrish,” the human went on when Peter didn’t answer. “I’m a deputy with the Beacon Hills sheriff’s department.”

No, wait. He wasn’t human, not anymore. There was something off in his scent, something earthy but sharp.

Peter raised his chin. “Did I forget to pay a parking ticket, Deputy?”

“No.” Color rose in the kid’s cheeks. Earnest, humble. He’d better not start talking about God and redemption or Peter would have to gut him on the spot and that – he sighed – would result in unpleasant things like cleaning blood from his sweater and arguing with Derek.

And Lydia wouldn’t like it.

It might bring her though, summon her in one of those wide-eyed fits where she connected with something larger and more mysterious than the moon.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Parrish said. “Ask you some questions.”

Peter stiffened. “Are these questions going to involve handcuffs and alibis?”

“No.” Parrish smiled, his shoulders dropping a little. He took a step closer, close enough that Peter could grab him around the throat, and said quietly, “I was hoping to talk to you about creatures. About…about what I might be.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Parrish was too honest for a worthwhile exchange of favors, and he was pro-Scott McCall. Neither of these characteristics were commendable. “You _might_ be taking too long of a break from your patrol. You _might_ be confused. It’s okay, kid. I’m a little confused too these days. But I can’t help you.”

“Oh.” Parrish’s eyes hardened, and something rolled through them. Not a wolf. No, he wasn’t that. It was something older, more constant. He straightened, his thumbs hooking into his gun belt as he accepted the answer. “Lydia thought you might know. She said you had…extensive experience. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

And there it was, the bell that tolled through his mind, shoving away all other thoughts, every time he thought of her. His canines ached, wanting to break free. Peter glanced around, catching his reflection in a storefront window. No light from his eyes, not yet. But he was close. As always, he’d found himself watching her – watching over her. But this time he’d shown himself. And she’d reacted. Oh, how she’d reacted. Her scent remained on his clothes, his hands. Pleasant, teasing. But she’d also given her attention to this…whatever he was.

“You walked through fire,” Peter said lightly, his eyes half-lidding, “maybe you’re a salamander.”

The kid’s eyebrows shot up. “A _lizard_?”

Peter shrugged. “Better not show that form to Lydia. She had a bad experience with the last lizard boy that crawled through town.”

He turned and walked away, claws digging into his palm. Ignoring her wasn’t an option. The town was too small. There were too many reminders. There was one way to get the red-haired temptress out of his head, to eliminate the distraction, and that was by claiming her and getting her out of his system. He smiled sharply. It was a necessary chore, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banshee dreams. The enemy of my enemy is...Peter Hale?

Lydia closed her car door, took five steps, and stopped. Her hands clenched around her chemistry notes. In front of her was a forest, dark except for the beams of her headlights. She turned around. The forest was behind her, too. Her tires had left dark, muddy tracks between the trees. This wasn’t the high school. She was supposed to go to the school to help Malia and Kira catch up on a chemistry lab since they’d missed one while off helping Scott with some superpower werewolf thing. Not drive into a creepy forest, all alone. And her front tires were sunk halfway into the loose dirt. Great.

The headlights flicked off, and Lydia swallowed. Super great. Her heart pounded in her chest. Inside, another pressure built, that _thing_ that tugged at her when death was close. The problem with trying to master the banshee powers was that she couldn’t do it without death, and death was scary. She pulled the binder against her chest and took an experimental step. Moonlight filtered through the canopy of branches. Leaves and small sticks crunched beneath her feet, impossibly loud. But there was no other sound. No birds, no bugs. No animals and, hopefully, no monsters.

“Hello?” she said. It was something the stupid girl in a horror movie would say, but the _call_ inside of her was growing stronger. Something was nearby. But she was coherent, and her mind was quiet. Whatever had called her, it wasn’t a corpse. Yet.

“Hello,” a voice said from behind her. She jumped, then started running almost before her feet touched the ground. The forest disappeared.

She raised her hand, blocking the sudden, searing sunlight. Gone was the leafy ground. Gone were the trees and her car. All around there was nothing but lush green grass coating low, rolling hills. And him. The man facing her must have been six foot five, and built like a god. Thick black hair waved down to his broad shoulders. The thin silver robe he wore rippled around his muscular body, as if it was made of liquid. Very revealing liquid. Or maybe it didn’t matter how heavy his clothes when he was packing that kind of below-the-waist firepower. Lydia jerked her gaze back to his face. His skin was milk pale, his eyes obsidian black, and he was a complete stranger. She’d have remembered seeing someone so…impressive.

“Lydia Martin,” he said, and she shivered at the sound of his deep voice. “I’ve been searching for you.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why me?”

He moved closer, and her eyelids drifted almost closed. He smelled good, earthy and sweet, and the warmth of the sun was nothing compared to the heat emanating from him.

“I’m here to help you,” he murmured. That didn’t sound right. She forced her eyes to open, which was strangely difficult.

“What do you think I need help with?”

“I think that you are lonely.”

She flinched, the comment driving into her with no resistance.

“You do not need to be lonely. I think that you are scared.” He touched her chin, raising it until all she could see was the curve of his lips, the proud line of his nose, and those bottomless eyes. “You do not need to be scared.”

She shook her head, not denying what he was saying but agreeing with him. She didn’t want to be those things.

“And I think you want to see your friend again,” he said, blinking slowly. “Allison.”

She stopped breathing. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” He smiled, those luscious lips curling into a smile. “You of all people should know that the dead can always be found. I can show you the way.”

She wanted to reject it, but even more she wanted what he offered. Calm. Safety. Allison.

“Will you come with me?” he asked, turning to point toward a distant hill.

“What’s on the other side?”

“A river. Cool, refreshing. It has the ability to cleanse the spirit.”

She opened her mouth to answer, and a low sound filled the air. She started to turn, and he grabbed her, both hands roughly closing on her cheeks.

“Look at me,” he commanded, the words rushed. “Only at me.”

“What is it?” Lydia asked, her stomach churning. Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right at all. His hands were so cold, his eyes so dark. And that sound…it was a werewolf. And it was someone she knew.

“Come with me now,” the man said, his fingers digging in harder when she shook her head. “Now,” he yelled.

“No.”

The sun and grass faded, and he went with it. Leaving Lydia sitting on the pokey ground in the dark, her bare legs cold and…covered in slime. Something moved next to her knee and she squinted through the darkness, trying to make it out. It looked like…she tilted her head. Oh God, it was a head. She scrambled back, freezing when a roar shook through the night. A second head sailed through the air and landed beside the first, and she turned away, afraid she was going to vomit.

“Who knew,” Peter said, breathing heavily as he sauntered toward her. “That dogs came with three heads.” He dropped the third one – still attached to a large, oddly shaped body – and looked around. His eyes were neon blue, and his clawed hands dripped blood. But she still nearly threw herself into his arms, she was so relieved to see him. He was real, familiar. Not some mystical bully trying to pull her out of her world.

“What happened?” she asked, trying to fix her short skirt as she pushed herself to her feet. Peter gently grasped her elbow and helped her up. The claws, thankfully, had mostly retracted.

“When I found you,” he said, brushing loose hair back from her face as he looked her over, “this beast was licking your legs while a hideous, black, Voldemort-looking thing crouched over you, staring into your unblinking eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was mesmerizing you or if you were on some kind of kinky date.”

She smacked his arm, infuriated by his cool sarcasm. “I was not here on a date.”

Peter smiled and Lydia rocked back. His teeth weren’t quite shaped right yet. Realizing it, he closed his lips, and frowned.

“I don’t know what that thing is,” she said, pointing at the collection of body parts, “but I didn’t see a thing. I saw a man. He summoned me here, somehow. He was big and…” She trailed off as Peter started to growl low in his throat. “Big,” she repeated lamely, swallowing the word “handsome.”

Peter’s chin was tipped down and he stared at her, his eyes brilliant, his expression raw. He’d killed that thing for her, woken her from hypnosis with his voice, and now…

She reached out and touched his face, jerking her hand away when he winced. But he caught it, pulling it back against his skin. His jaw was rough with stubble, the muscles beneath her palm tense. His claws pricked against the back of her hand. He was a werewolf that was still bloody from a fight, and they were close to the full moon. She had to swallow twice before she could speak.

“Pull your claws back, Peter.”

He showed her his teeth, which still weren’t right, but the sharpness retreated. His fingertips stroked the back of her hand, soothing her, pleading her to stay. He leaned against her touch, making her want to move closer to him, press herself against him to see how he’d react to that much contact. God, how would she react to it? She should hate him. But the way he was looking at her now, not with the soulless darkness of that creature that had infiltrated her mind, but with need. Raw, human need.

She knew what that felt like, to crave a connection.

The animal on the ground twitched, and Peter pushed her behind him. His hand was hot against her hip.

“I don’t think that he wants to play dead anymore,” he said. Lydia peeked over his shoulder. Tendrils stretched out from the animal’s body, creeping along the ground, reaching for the other pieces.

“Oh God.” Lydia covered her mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Bad dog.” Peter kicked one of the heads far into the woods, then scooped Lydia into his arms and started running.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One guess whose fault it is that an agent of the Underworld has come to Beacon Hills.
> 
> Lydia's bad reaction. Melissa McCall to the rescue.

“No,” Lydia insisted as she spoke into the phone, “it’s not dead. Two of the heads were decapitated and the neck was broken, but it was putting itself back together. Like a Humpty Dumpty made of teeth and claws.”

She jerked around in her seat again, staring back the way they’d come. Nothing followed them, Peter was sure of that. He pulled the neck of his sweater away from his chest and shifted in the driver’s seat. The heat in Lydia’s small car was on full blast because she was still shivering, and it was getting uncomfortable.

“I only saw one,” she snapped, her voice rising. “But it was still alive. It could have been a hydra, I guess.”

“It was a Cerberus,” Peter said, slowing the car to ease it out of the ditch and onto the road. “Three heads, long tail, and a mane of snakes. Those, thankfully, were barely hatched.”

He could hear Derek and Scott on the other end of the phone, demanding to know why Lydia was with Peter rather than focusing on the important part of the call – the fact that a hellhound from the underworld was roaming Beacon Hills and trying to paralyze beautiful girls with its toxic saliva. He glanced at Lydia’s legs, demurely crossed. It didn’t seem to have affected her beyond the few minutes she was out. That was a relief. From what little he knew, it wasn’t supposed to be deadly, but it also wasn’t supposed to be used on humans. Not live ones anyway.

“Peter,” she hissed, covering the phone with one hand and pulling her skirt down with the other. He glanced up, and swerved back into his lane.

“What were you doing in the woods dressed like that?” he whispered back.

“I didn’t dress for the woods. That just sort of happened.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to the phone. “Just look for it, Scott, please. It’s vicious. I don’t want it to find anyone else.”

She ended the call and pinched the bridge of her nose between two delicate fingers.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked.

“Fine,” she said. She was accustomed to playing at strength, pretending that nothing hurt or affected her. She didn’t like being weak. That, he understood. But, while Lydia wasn’t weak, she was delicate. Banshees’ power was all in their ability to inhabit multiple worlds at once. Physically, she was only human. He hadn’t meant to follow her. He’d told himself he wouldn’t, but when she’d turned abruptly and headed out of town, he’d known something was wrong. If she’d had one of her friends with her – the fox with the sword or even Scott McCall, he’d had let her go. He was glad he hadn’t. The being that had mesmerized her was not weak or delicate, and Peter had not liked him standing over her.

He turned down the blasting heat and slid his hand beneath her hair to massage her neck. She stiffened, but didn’t try to shift away.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “What happened tonight was traumatic. It’s okay to-”

“Be traumatized?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. The muscles in her neck tensed further, and Peter’s claws itched to extend. If he were to pierce her skin, in those exact places along her vertebrae, he could tell precisely how she was feeling. Know exactly how she felt about him. But that would be stealing and, while he wasn’t against theft as a rule – some of his very favorite things were stolen – Lydia wouldn’t forgive him for it. He didn’t ever want her to look at him again like she had when they met after he’d bitten her. Horrified. Betrayed.

He continued to stroke.

“Be confused,” he said. “Or scared. It’s okay to feel lost. You weren’t prepared for any of these things that have happened, or that keep happening.”

“I’m not lost,” she insisted, but doubt ringed her stubborn words. “I’m used to it. I’m a banshee. Waking up in strange places is part of the job description. What were you doing there, anyway?”

“Communing with nature. It’s part of my anger management therapy.”

Her head tilted back against the headrest. Beneath his hand, her muscles started to melt.

“And here I thought you just had a thing for banshees.” In response to his look, she gave him an insincere smile. “You know, with Meredith, then me.”

“Whatever Meredith thought occurred, that took place in an alternate reality.” His hand slid upwards, into Lydia’s silky red hair. “And I don’t have a thing for banshees. Just you.”

Her lips parted, and a faint blush stained her cheeks. Leaned back, with her hair disheveled, she was gorgeous and wild. And she was so close, tucked beside him in the little car. Her fear was gone, the adrenaline spike dissolving under the heat and his touch. When she looked at him like that, as if she were starting to consider him differently, his heart beat faster.

Suddenly she frowned and made a little sound of distress. Her head slumped.

“Lydia?” He shook her shoulder. Her breathing became labored, and Peter floored the accelerator. The toxin hadn’t worn off. Her adrenaline had rebuffed it, but the second it subsided, the paralytic had attacked.

The tired squealed as he swerved into the hospital parking lot. Running around the car, he lifted Lydia out of her seat and aimed for the emergency room.

“Help,” he barked as he cleared the doors. “I need help.”

She hung limp in his arms, nearly weightless, her hair hanging over her face. The seconds it took for a nurse to round the corner stretched intolerably long.

“Put here there,” the nurse said, pushing him toward a white gurney parked along the wall. “I’ll call the doctor.”

It seemed wrong to lay his Lydia, usually so vivid, so bright, onto the lifeless thing.

“What did you do to her?” Melissa McCall asked, shoving him out of the way. Her dark eyes were full of suspicion. And she deserved that, but now was not the time.

“Not me,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm and rational. It would not help Lydia for him to lose it. “She was exposed to a toxin. It’s supposed to paralyze the recipient, temporarily.”

“What toxin?” Melissa’s lips thinned as she followed his gesture to Lydia’s legs where red welts had risen along her shins.

“It’s…” Peter spread his hands. How to explain? “Not of this world.”

“Seriously?” Her eyebrows shot up, but to her credit, Melissa recovered almost instantly. She called to the other nurse. “I’ve got this one, Carol.”

Unlocking the gurney, she wheeled it toward a private room.

“I need you to tell me everything,” Melissa murmured through her teeth as Peter shoved the door opened and helped maneuver the bed through. “How long ago? What were her symptoms and in what order did they onset? And then you can tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Of course.” Peter took Lydia’s hand. Her face was pale, her body practically convulsing with each attempted breath. He’d tell Melissa whatever she needed to get Lydia through this, everything except the fact that the being who had mesmerized her and was likely trying to draw her into his world, was in Beacon Hills because of Peter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you been in love, Peter?”
> 
> “Me?” His voice was a soft caress, losing his usual sharp sarcasm, as he started working through the tangles at the ends of her hair. “There was family of course, but other than that I’ve never been very good at putting other people before me. That’s what it is, right? Not roses or poetry, but waking and falling asleep with thoughts of taking care of another person.”

“Five more minutes.” Lydia threw her arm over her eyes when the overhead light burst on.

“Not tonight, princess,” Peter Hale said, closing the door behind him and glancing out the small window to the hall. “We need to go now.”

Lydia squinted at him, then peered around the room. She was in the hospital. It only took two seconds to figure that out, she’d been here so often over the last year.

“Is something attacking us?” she asked, throwing the covers back and grimacing when she discovered she was wearing a baggy pink gown. Her shins were shiny and sticky, covered in some kind of ointment.

“Not yet.” Peter smirked. “But your mother has been calling your phone relentlessly, and the good sheriff just called to advise that she flagged down a passing patrol car to ask how to file a missing person’s report. I’m going to take you home before she drops in here like a hurricane.”

“A passing patrol car?” Lydia tested her legs. They still worked, which was a plus. “She’s at home. Why were the police there?”

“Home? Is that what she told you? She was at Club Solange.”

Her mom had grading to do, but instead she’d gone out. And to a pretty scuzzy club at that. Lydia scowled at the floor. She didn’t like the guy her mom was seeing right now, with his year-round tan and “Just for Men” dark hair, and how he pretended he was decades younger than he was. He always smelled like cigarette smoke and, before her mom had even introduced them, he’d criticized her for staying out too late. Beauty would fade, he’d said, making her lip curl, so she needed to study more. The joke was on him in that regard, but her mother hadn’t even stood up for her. She hadn’t mentioned Lydia’s 4.0, which actually had been difficult last semester with all the classes she’d missed while Stiles was sick. Beauty. That was the least of her worries these days. A girl could be beautiful, but smart enough to stop a nogitsune? That was worth something. It would be worth more if her mom knew, or if she’d have cared.

Lydia tore her plastic ID band off her wrist, gripped the back of the gown closed, and stomped into the bathroom. She unwrapped the cheap, hard-bristled toothbrush and brushed her teeth, then wiped away globs of mascara with the rough, bleach-smelling washcloth. Then she retied the stupid gown so that she didn’t have to hold it closed.

“I take it you disapprove?” Peter asked when she came back out.

“She’s forty-five,” Lydia said, wheeling on him. “And this is the thirteenth man she’s dated since Dad. Each one’s older and meaner than the last, and each one makes her sadder. It’s a school night. She had grading to do. She shouldn’t be out…carousing.”

Or getting too drunk to teach in the morning. She needed this job. They needed it. Maybe that was the worst part, how helpless Lydia felt seeing her mom sacrificing a job she liked while trying to be what these losers told her they wanted. They didn’t deserve her.

“How are they mean to you?” Peter asked it quietly, but she picked up on an undercurrent of aggression. He was standing with one shoulder leaned against the wall, his chin lowered as he pretended to study the band she’d thrown on the floor.

“Not to me,” she said, taking a deep breath as tears threatened. “To her. She bends and bends for them and they…” She didn’t want to air the family’s dirty laundry to Peter, who would turn around and use it against her. “They can’t ever say anything nice,” she finished, turning away to gather her clothes, neatly folded on a rolling tray.

“What happened to me anyway?” she asked.

“The dog paralyzed you with its spit. Melissa McCall injected you with something so you could metabolize it more quickly and keep breathing while you did. You’ll be fine.”

Had she not been breathing? Man, this night just got worse and worse. Thank goodness Peter had been there. It was strange to think of how often he was there, when she was in the most danger. Her chest warmed, and nerves fluttered through her. He’d brought her to safety. And he’d stayed.

“Thank you, for bringing me here.” Leaves fell from her sweater when she picked it up. She turned her skirt over in her hands, rubbing at the dirt stains and frowning at a small tear in the hem. Her clothes were a mess. She felt like she was a mess, like she’d never be put together and nothing would ever be easy again.

“Maybe she’s never had someone truly care for her,” Peter murmured, and Lydia all but froze at his unexpected words. “Maybe she doesn’t understand that she should be treasured.”

“My father adored her,” Lydia heard herself respond. “Made her feel like a queen, like the sun itself. She moved here for him, gave up her job and friends. Everything. But then he stopped.” She shrugged.

“He never cared,” Peter said. She felt him step closer. “Not really. If he had, nothing could have kept him from her. Nothing about her would have diminished, not for him.”

He reached past her, and Lydia’s lips parted, but he only pulled the small hairbrush out of her purse. She didn’t know much about him before he’d roamed the town, mad with vengeance. Had he lost someone in the Hale house fire? Or had she escaped, and he’d woken years later to find her gone?

“Have you been in love, Peter?”

“Me?” His voice was a soft caress, losing his usual sharp sarcasm, as he started working through the tangles at the ends of her hair. “There was family of course, but other than that I’ve never been very good at putting other people before me. That’s what it is, right? Not roses or poetry, but waking and falling asleep with thoughts of taking care of another person.”

“You don’t have to take care of someone to love them. Most people can take care of themselves.”

He worked higher, the brush tugging at the roots of her hair. Not so much that it hurt, just enough that she could feel the pull. It was hypnotic, and even though she’d just woken up it was still late. Lydia’s eyelids drifted closed.

“They think they can, but people only do the minimum to get by. They don’t think they deserve more. If I loved a woman, I’d lavish the world upon her.”

Lydia smiled at the thought. “You’d spoil her.”

She shivered when his breath brushed her ear as he leaned close. “Anything she desired, I’d give it to her.”

It was too much. The words were too intense, landing too close to the tender parts of her heart. And he was too close, that thrumming werewolf energy making him feel massive behind her. Lydia’s eyes flew open and she turned, ignoring his protest when the brush tore through her hair.

“Why do you do this to me?” she demanded. “Come so close and tease, then disappear for weeks.”

His gaze was locked on her lips. She licked them, and his blue eyes brightened.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I try to stay away, and find myself gravitating back…to you.”

His hands slid around her waist, and she was abruptly aware that she was mostly naked beneath the gown. Instead of it making her self-conscious, she liked the idea of so little between them.

“Peter,” she said, almost trembling.

“You’re so beautiful, Lydia.” His eyes softened. His brows drew together in bewilderment as his fingers ran over her lips. “How are you so beautiful?”

She kissed him, going up on bare toes to press her lips against him. He didn’t quite move his fingers out of the way and her tongue swept against one of them, making him growl. She tried to rub against him. That’s all it took to get the high school boys riled up, and she wanted him riled up. Maybe Peter wouldn’t give her the world, but he could make her forget about it for a little while.

Except he was having none of it. He backed her up until her legs bumped against the bed, and then leaned over her, bracing himself on both arms. The position left her arched, and she wrapped an arm around his neck to hold herself up. Because, she found, she couldn’t let him go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cerberus has vanished. Derek and Scott and, to Peter's great irritation, on the case. And Lydia has him as confused as ever.

“The heads were gone,” Derek said.

“All of them?” Peter asked.

Behind Derek, Scott McCall rolled his eyes. The little punk. A true alpha, he shouldn’t have stood behind Derek. He should have been front and center, presiding over every room he entered. He didn’t understand the power he had, couldn’t wield it yet. He lacked conviction, Peter decided, and one day it was going to get him killed. Him and his loyal pack of friends. They’d follow him into any battle, not because he was a great strategist. He hadn’t even figured out how to calculate the odds. They followed out of blind devotion. It would get them all killed, including Lydia, and that Peter would never forgive him for.

“Yeah, all the heads,” Scott said, coming around the table beneath Derek’s loft window. “If there really were any. How do we know you didn’t lure Lydia out there and mess with her head?”

It was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes. He scoffed and dropped onto the battered couch.

“Derek, did you call me here for something other than the accusations of this amateur Sherlock?”

“I’d like to know as well,” Derek said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. When Peter gave him a quelling look, Derek only raised an eyebrow. “Are you messing with Lydia?”

“No.” It came out stronger than he’d intended and Peter frowned. “A creature mesmerized her. Something incorporeal. She’s…susceptible to it. Probably because it’s from the realm of the dead. The dog may have been there coincidentally, and even after I sliced it to pieces and broke its neck, it came back to life.”

“A zombie dog?” Scott asked flatly.

“You called it a Cerberus,” Derek said, spinning the laptop around on the table. From where he sat, Peter could see the image of a pencil drawing. The dog stalked the shore of a winding river, one snout in the water, the other testing the air. The third mouth was wide open, revealing two rows of jagged teeth. The body was thick and muscular, like a lion’s. The tail was long and barbed. Black, sharp-headed snakes ringed its neck but seemed to be floating around it rather than attached.

“Or maybe it was a Labradoodle.” Peter shrugged. “It was very dark.”

“It smelled like brimstone,” Derek said. “And it left a trail of slime.”

“First you doubted me, now you believe me. Make up your minds.” Peter stretched out on the couch. He’d been vigilant until he’d deposited Lydia on her doorstep after Melissa McCall had interrupted them at the hospital. But now he was tired. The Cerberus had taken a couple of bites out of his side before he’d decapitated it…twice. “I hope you didn’t touch the slime. It’s toxic.”

“How do you know so much about this thing?” Scott asked, approaching but not getting within striking distance. Maybe he was getting a little smarter.

“Easy. Because I paid attention in class. You should look into it some day. In Greek mythology, the Cerberus dogs belong to Hades, god of the underworld.”

“Right,” Scott said. “Son of Zeus.”

“Brother,” Peter corrected, closing his eyes and folding his hands over his chest. “The underworld isn’t hell in the modern sense but a massive kingdom where the dead roam in various forms. Most are like they were in life except for being under his authority. Others are shades or ghouls or some such. I don’t know what purpose they serve. Maybe they’re decorative, for atmosphere. Beneath the underworld is the prison realm of Tartarus where the monsters that haunt the dreams of monsters are kept when captured through Herculean efforts. Or when imprisoned by Hades and his siblings. My goodness, how gods like their grudges.”

“What would Hades want with Lydia?” Scott asked, and Peter admired him for his anger. He would protect her, which might very soon become necessary.

“Think about it,” Derek said. “He rules the land of the dead. Lydia’s a banshee.”

“She can hear the dead,” Scott said. He shook his head. “But what use is that for someone who is their king?”

“It’s mythology,” Peter cried, throwing his hand up. “And, yes, yes, we’re werewolves and we’re supposed to be myths, too. But there are rules to our species and there is logic behind it. We don’t leap fully-formed from our father’s brains then turn people into swans with the flick of a wrist. The thing that Lydia attracted was probably a ghost.”

Derek turned away, busying himself with the laptop, and Peter swung his legs to the ground and faced Scott.

“Her powers grow, but not her control, right?” Normally lies rolled off of his tongue, but this one tasted sour. She was getting stronger, working to master her gift even though there was no one to guide her, to teach her. He couldn’t even do it, and he’d been her catalyst. He didn’t like the confusion in her eyes, the frustration that grated at her. Feeling useless was its own torment.

“She attracted something, and a strange creature followed the scent of her power. This town is literally a beacon right now, attracting all kinds of freakish beings. If it hasn’t moved on, we’ll hunt for it later. There’s no reason to think it’s connected to the ghost or after her specifically. If it is drawn to power, we should be more concerned with it coming after you, Scott.”

“I can take care of myself,” the alpha said, stiffening. “But if you’re wrong and something happens to Lydia…”

“Nothing will happen to her.” His claws started to emerge and Peter dropped his hands between his knees to hide them.

“He’s right,” Derek said. “You need to pay attention to your surroundings at all times, Scott. And to do that, you need to be well-rested. It’s almost three a.m. and we’re close to a full moon. Get some sleep. You’ll need your control.”

He wanted to resist. Noble, ignorant McCall who couldn’t spot a lie told to his face. It would have been admirable if it weren’t so sad.

“Fine,” Scott said, grabbing his motorcycle helmet. “But I’ll hunt for it again tonight.”

“I’ll help you. Drive safe.” Derek watched him leave the loft, then turned on Peter. “So, Uncle, what does the lord of the underworld want with the banshee?”

“I’m not sure.”

“No?” Derek asked, sounding unconvinced. He smirked. “Then I’ve got another question for you. What do you want with her?”

To keep her safe.

To claim her.

To worship her.

To make her regret forcing him to feel.

Peter shook his head. “I have no idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malia and Kira join the investigation into the Cerberus that's haunting Beacon Hills, and Stiles has a theory.

Lydia wandered through the halls of the school, her notebook clasped in front of her. She could barely focus. She’d been abuzz when she got home, all lit up. When Peter kissed her, it was like she was the only thing in his world, the only thing that mattered. The only thing that had broken his complete concentration on her had been Melissa McCall walking in and going drill sergeant. “You, step back.” “You, go get dressed.”

Lydia smiled. Even the werewolves couldn’t stand up to her when Melissa got like that. No wonder Scott had turned into an alpha.

Peter had been a perfect gentleman after that, driving her home and walking her to the door. He hadn’t tried to kiss her again – by then she’d been nervous about her mother or, worse, her boyfriend Dan, catching them. Sure Peter was older but it wasn’t like it was that big of a difference. If you subtracted his years in a coma, he was barely even…considerably older. But it wasn’t like she was naïve or all that innocent. Hell, she hadn’t been innocent since she’d found a series of very purple, very graphic novels hidden in her mother’s dresser at the age of eleven.

Still…nothing had prepared her for Peter Hale.

“You look terrible.”

Lydia looked up to find her mother smiling down at her. Natalie Martin crossed her arms.

“What time did you get in last night, young lady?”

“Before you,” Lydia countered, raising her chin. “I’m surprised you were able to haul yourself out of bed this morning.”

At that, Natalie winced. But then she brushed her hair away from her face and forced a smile.

“Dan got me a fabulous concealing cream for our one month anniversary. Does wonders after an ill-advised night out. It’s on my vanity if you want to try it.”

Lydia’s forced smile fell. “He got you _concealer_? As a _present_?”

“It was nice.” Natalie looked around, peeved as always that Lydia was challenging her and – Lydia sensed – embarrassed that she’d mentioned it. “You could use some right now. You’re still in high school and you look worn out.”

“Pot. Kettle. I’ll see you after economics.” Lydia beamed at her mother, even though she was seething on the inside, and marched away.

It was preposterous. No, it was almost criminal that Dan would treat her mother that way. Giving her something that was no more than a suggestion that she hide her age and calling it a present. Natalie Martin would always be the most beautiful woman in the world, even if she was making bad choices.

Lydia almost stumbled, the memory of the man from her vision coming back to her in a rush. The black hair, that statuesque body and renaissance face. He’d made her feel… Well, he’d been scary and too forceful there at the end. But before that, he’d made her feel comfortable. Almost at home, not like the home she’d grown up in with mom and dad fighting and using her as a weapon against the other. But like a home ought to feel, where you could be yourself and not worry about criticism or judgment. She had no idea who he was, and the place he’d selected for her vision had been unfamiliar, but he’d called to her like an old song.

A pain in her arm startled her out of her reverie, and Lydia found Malia and Kira staring at her.

“Ouch,” she said, belatedly covering her arm where the coyote had pinched her.

“What is going on with you?” Kira asked, her eyes wide and anxious.

“You were really out of it,” Malia said, indicating the wall that Lydia had been facing, unseeing. “Are you having a vision?”

Peter’s daughter. For some reason that made her blush, and Lydia cleared her throat.

“No, just thinking.”

“Scott said you were attacked by some kind of beast-dog that smelled like brimstone,” Kira said as they turned and headed for class.

“What’s brimstone?” Malia asked.

“Sulfur. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Lydia said. “It wasn’t…as these things go, it wasn’t a big deal.” She caught a glimpse of her mother down the hall, her cell phone pressed to her ear, a frown creasing her forehead. _Dan_. He’d said he could give her what she wanted, the man in her vision.

And that’s all it had been. She’d remained in the woods, at night, but inside of the vision he’d created she’d felt warmth. She’d had to squint against the strength of the sun. If she’d gone with him, would she have felt calm the way she’d felt that light? Would she have felt safe, happy? Could she have seen Allison again?

Unexpectedly, a sob hitched up in Lydia’s throat and she swallowed it. They slid into their seats, Malia beside Stiles. Kira behind Scott. Lydia set her notebook on her desk and straightened her pen beside it. She was with them, but on the outside. She didn’t have their superpowered strength or healing. All her abilities were inside her mind, invisible, and they turned her inside out more than they helped anyone.

And she didn’t have one of them. They all belonged to each other. A piece of Allison had always belonged to Lydia, no matter what was going on with her family or with Scott. Allison had believed in her, and coaxed her instead of growing frustrated when the voices weren’t clear. Lydia thought she’d loved Jackson, but they hadn’t belonged to each other. Funny. Her mom had always said she’d feel complete when she found a man. But she’d only ever felt complete with her friend. A sound whispered past, and Lydia zoned in on it. She listened for Allison when her banshee powers rose up, strained to hear her no matter what was going on. But she’d yet to catch her voice. Maybe if she were closer…

“So what happened,” Kira asked when the teacher turned to write on the board.

“Do you think,” Lydia asked, tilting her head, “there’s a way for a person to move between worlds?”

“Like how you hear voices from the other side?” Kira whispered, her nose scrunching up.

“Yeah, but I’m not talking about only the voice. I’m talking about the whole person. Being transported from one plane of existence to another.” Lydia leaned closer, glancing up when Scott turned around in his seat. He didn’t look happy.

“That thing was a hellhound,” Stiles snapped. “Like a hound. From Hell. And you’re curious about whether you can skip over to its homeland?”

“Not a hound of Hell,” Scott said. “A hound of Hades, Lord of the Underworld.”

They all stared at him for a moment, and then Malia laughed a low, spooky laugh.

“Wicked.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes in search of a secret weapon while Lydia wrestles with her banshee talents, and her underworld stalker returns.

Peter unlocked the gate on the ground floor, then locked it behind him. He went down a flight of stairs lit only by a flickering, low wattage bulb. The walls had been painted an industrial mint green a decade before he’d purchased the building and he’d left them that way. Intentionally unwelcome to discourage anyone from getting too close. Flicking the claws of his right hand out, he approached the security door. There was no handle, no knob, and no doorbell. There were five holes, into which he extended his fingers, twisting them until his claws fit into the small, inset divots. If someone managed to get past the outside door and wasn’t intimidated by the dust and the cobwebs, they’d still think twice before sticking their hand into the lock. Not that it would matter if they were brave or foolish enough to. Based on the locks Talia had commissioned for the Hale vaults, this model was keyed to him. Nobody else could open it.

When the tumbler clicked, too quiet for human ears, he turned the lock. Air hissed out as the door opened. Inside was an empty room built to create the first impression of a modern empire. Reclaimed hardwood floors. Thirteen layers of pale yellow lacquer on the walls to achieve just the right glow. An angular glass urn that rose out of the floor to house a water effect. This room was meant to impress and set the mood for a sophisticated buyer. The water effect had never been activated. Kate Argent had burned down his home, murdering most of his family in the process, and the rare antiquities business had been the last thing on his mind when he’d recovered.

The basement did make a kickass secret base when he tired of watching Derek and Scott play their heroic games, however. Beyond the lobby lay his stockroom, housing a curated collection of antiquities - mystical, rare and very, very expensive. Just because he hadn’t focused on the business didn’t mean he was a complete slacker, which was about to come in useful.

If someone needed to, say, prevent a creature that may or may not be a god from accessing the earthly realm, there was a good chance something in the underground warehouse was up to the task. Lydia had noticed that he disappeared for weeks at a time. It was flattering that she’d noticed. But it was time spent productively. Most of these items had been continents away, and the trail of rumors and warnings leading to them was labyrinthine.

He headed to the end of the aisle. Everything was meticulously catalogued in his mind. The long wooden case held the pike that had raised Ivan the Terrible’s head. A small, cloudy jar contained Catherine the Great’s advisor’s eye. It turned as Peter passed. He paused, glaring at it until it sank and spun away. Rasputin was so very freaky. Vials and urns, and heavy, battery-powered cases humming with suppression technology.

He crouched, pushing an endlessly steaming metal bowl out of his way. Behind it sat a rough brown sack. This had been a tricky one, a job he’d taken out of curiosity rather than on a contract. He’d almost missed it. The prior owner had hidden it in a root cellar, among burlap bags full of potatoes and onions. The items inside shifted, rolling against each other, tinkling as they made contact. His teeth ground together. Oh yeah, there was one problem with it.

Shaking his head to clear it, he pulled the sack off of the shelf with utmost care. In time he could figure out how to keep Hades from crossing over. He tightened his grip around the neck of the bag. For now, he could make Lydia disappear.

***

Lydia lit the fireplace and settled in front of it. She arranged her laptop and the two books she’d gotten from a new age shop that whispered whenever she passed it. From her bag, she pulled out the navy hoodie Allison had left at her house a million years ago. She stroked the soft inside, then pulled it on over her camisole and pajama pants.

The books talked about gateways. Not physical places or mystical portals, but gateways of the spirit. Each soul had a frequency, and she could tune towards or away from them. While there was no science behind it – she’d found herself a little embarrassed when she’d started reading it in the store – it had made sense. For her, for a banshee. The other book talked about ley lines, streams of energy like the ones that mixed beneath the Nemeton. That was a bigger concept, and one that brought with it all kinds of bad memories. The Darach. Stiles, being torn apart from the inside by the Nogitsune. The red-hot bolt that had sliced through her when Allison had died. Lydia could still feel it, a raw place beneath her breastbone. Suddenly the fire was too hot, aggravating that spot, the last sense she’d ever felt of Allison. Her eyes burned, too, as they filled with tears.

Walking out onto the porch, she wiped at her eyes and breathed in the cool air. Her fingernails caught in cracks in the railing. The outside of the house was all mountain ash, which made this the only place she felt safe these days. No supernatural thing was permitted enter the house unless she invited it. She could relax here.

Wrapping her hands in the ends of her sleeves, she pressed her hands to that soft spot just below her ribs. Full of memories of her best friend, she opened.

_It never should have been me._

The first voice was always the worst. Every time, in the hush that rose as the physical world fell away, she thought she was going crazy. But then the rest followed: the screamers, the criers, those whose spirits endlessly begged for forgiveness. And those who raged. She twitched, and her eyelids fluttered closed as the chorus of voices clashed inside her mind before settling into a steady current. The frequency of the dead.

With their death, anyone could make her scream. It was only the restless spirits she could hear afterwards.

So why couldn’t she hear Allison?

“Most of the dead are content,” a man said.

She opened her eyes. _He_ was there, in the same silver robes. With the same black, fathomless eyes. At least he hadn’t transported her – or sicced his nasty dog-thing on her.

“Is she?” Lydia asked, her hands trembling against her stomach.

“Allison Argent?” His wide upper lip curled slightly on one side as he extended his hand. “Let me show you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hades himself comes to entice Lydia to join him in the underworld and it's tempting. He's tempting.

“You expect me to take your hand and follow you into that?” Lydia gestured at the portal behind the giant of a man, at a landscape as desolate as the last vision’s had been vivid. The rocky ground was charcoal. The division between it and the sky was virtually indiscernible, since the sky was only a lighter shade of gray. The red of his lips was the only color. The flash from the silver of his robes when he shifted was the only movement. Well, that and the muscle rippling beneath it.

“The underworld can be welcoming if I want it to be.”

“Who are you?” Lydia murmured, feeling the truth of the coming answer even as her mind rebelled against it.

“Hades,” he replied simply. His gaze traced her hair before returning to her eyes. “You are a striking being, Lydia Martin. You will be most welcome here.”

She recoiled, hands fisting beneath her elbows as she crossed her arms.

“I am not interested in you.”

Rather than laughing or making some biting comment to let her know she wasn’t worth his time, his expression hardened.

“Nor I in you. All living things will arrive here eventually, but my wife will always be the most beautiful of them. You do not compare to her. Nobody does.” His eyes flashed, and Lydia’s lips parted. He adored his wife, violently. Her chest tightened, and she shivered, both in reaction to his aggression and the thought of anyone carrying passion like that for her.

“What do you want then?” she asked.

“Your gift. Some of the denizens of this realm are outside of my reach. They exist, but follow neither the rules nor my direct orders. I want to know why.”

“And what would you want of me?”

“Banshees are…not of this plane. But death is a common condition not limited by the worlds they came from. It may be that they simply cannot understand me. I want you to listen to them and tell me if they are capable of thought. I want you to ask them their purpose.”

“So you can do what to them?”

His chin tipped up at the hostility in her question, and when his mouth opened it was more a baring of teeth than a smile.

“You misunderstand,” he said evenly. “I rule the dead. I am not their tormentor. These beings may be suffering. They may be misplaced. It happens sometimes. The devils among the living often send spirits here before their time through trickery or cursework. If they do not belong, they will be returned. If they are devoid of spirit, I can move on to more pressing matters. If they harbor ill intent, then I shall have them tried.”

That didn’t sound so bad, but Lydia still didn’t want to go to the underworld. It looked so cold, so vast. Surrounded by so many dead, with nobody to anchor her, she could be lost. Drifting in the voices and the gloom until she went mad.

“You could learn to control it,” Hades said, as if he could hear her thoughts. “To harness and direct this gift. It’s a peculiar one for a human to hold. Perhaps it is not useful in your world. Perhaps it is a torment. In exchange for your assistance, I could help you to be free of it.”

A chance to look for Allison. A chance for her mind to be her own, and occupied with nothing worse than anxiety over next Friday’s test. Lydia’s hands slipped from her sides and crawled across the railing. Hades seemed to swell, growing larger. The boundaries of the gateway flexed, and gray began to creep into her peripheral vision.

“You will be returned to within a day of your departure,” Hades said. “Nobody will miss you.”

It was the weekend. Her mom was at Dan’s and wouldn’t notice at all. The others…she hadn’t heard from them since school got out which meant they were probably wrapped up in something of their own. And hadn’t thought to include her, so it was probably something that required claws and chasing rather than analysis or an intelligent opinion. The only person who might miss her was Peter.

That thought sent a strange anticipation through her. Her breaths came faster. If he came looking for her and sensed that Hades had been around, Peter would be…

What?

Would he tear the lake house apart or charge through the forest looking for her? More likely he’d shrug and disappear again. The disappointment at that thought was almost calming, it was so familiar. No. Nobody would miss her.

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath and raising her hand. “I’ll go.”

The roar that sounded shook her to her bones. Gasping, Lydia flung herself around. Her nails dug into the wood when she saw what was coming

Eyes blazing, fangs sharp and claws spread, the werewolf charged.

Lydia screamed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter arrives at the wrong moment and attacks a god, then turns on Lydia. Who is done with this man in particular pushing her around.

On an impulse, Peter had returned to his stock room to recover one more item. The term “necklace” didn’t do justice to the delicate weave of gold filigree interlaced with apple green stones. The necklace was rumored to be Mnemosyne’s Kiss. Named for the Greek titan who governed memory, it was supposed to give the wearer perfect focus so that every experience they had while they wore it could be recalled perfectly. A dozen jewelers hadn’t been able to identify the stones, which made it more likely that it was authentic. It should help Lydia with her gift, and really it was the least he could do.

He’d felt the scar he left on her beneath the hospital gown the night before, pits and hard ridges marring the soft side of her belly. He was proud of it, and horribly ashamed.

Leaving his car across the street, he walked down her driveway. The sound of his cargo had nearly driven him insane, and the uneven gravel would toss him over the edge. It would be easier to bring her to it, and he had to make sure she was alone before he revealed it. The Hale vaults might be compromised but he wasn’t about to give away his personal collection.

He was still amped, as if a live wire were poking at his nerves, when he rounded the tree-lined corner. Her car was tucked neatly against the side of the house. She liked this place, which made sense. Her house alternated between caustic turmoil and weepy sadness. This place and its calm solitude had to be a breath of fresh air. The scent of her came to him on the breeze. Normally he would have paused to take it in. Instead he started running, flat out, the tension of the last few miles exploding inside him as his bones changed and his canines erupted in his mouth.

Lydia’s scent was tainted by acrid brimstone. A dark fog coated the house, thin and clinging. Peter rounded the corner of the house, his vision fragmenting as the beast took over. Lydia stood there, a slight, bright thing swaying toward the tower of darkness that was Hades. The god raised his hand toward her. She raised hers toward him. And Peter roared.

_His_. She could not leave him alone in this world. He wouldn’t let her.

“Your services aren’t needed,” the god said mildly. “I’ve struck a bargain with her.”

His services. As if he would have traded her like a token. Leaping onto the porch, Peter slashed at the god. Hades didn’t flinch, didn’t even raise his hands as Peter’s claws gouged into the flesh of his arms, his chest. Blood sprayed, hot and fragrant. With a disharmonious crash, the gate to the underworld slammed closed.

Peter tore the rail apart and leaped to the ground, stalking around the yard to ensure the god was gone. The air softened and grew damp. The stench of Hades retreated. Gone. Safe. He returned to Lydia, who’d backed against the wall of the house. Her arms were raised in front of her chest and throat. A defensive posture. He slowed as he approached her. His body had changed, his chest and shoulders expanding so much that the seams of his jacket had torn. His uneven fangs grated against each other.

Blood dotted one side of her face. He should let her be.

He couldn’t.

Her eyes were on everything but him as he approached her. She flinched when the back of her head hit the wall, began to shake when he touched her. He rested a single claw against her cheek. She was so strong on the inside, so delicate everywhere else.

A dog barked, up on the hill. Peter growled in response, and Lydia shook her head and raised her eyes to his face. She was scared, but more than that she was angry.

“What the hell did he mean,” she spit out, “‘your services aren’t needed’?”

He tried to speak, but the rough sounds that came out weren’t words. The distortion of his face faded a little as tension receded, but the change didn’t reverse completely.

“Did you have a deal with him?” Lydia demanded, her green eyes narrowing as the heat rose in her voice. “You told him where I was in exchange for what, money? Or wait, I forgot. Money isn’t what you lack. It’s power. That’s what you lost, isn’t it? That’s the only thing you care about.”

Her scornful words struck deeply, and he would have been mad if he weren’t on the verge of panic. He was stuck, caught in an in-between form where his mind wasn’t quite his own and his body was mostly beyond his control. He did things in this form sometimes, and while he didn’t always remember them, he knew they were bad things. Talia had tried to train it out of him, and when that hadn’t worked she’d tried other methods. Pain. Starvation. It had only made him more desperate.

Huffing, Lydia turned away from him, aiming for the door. With a snarl, he slammed a fist into the wall in front of her.

“No,” she snapped, spinning toward him. “You don’t get to do that to me. Not anymore. I am done with you pushing and pulling me around.” Her little chin quivered as she raised it. “Move, Peter.”

_Or what_ , he wanted to demand. Would she call for Scott? Throw it in his face that he was so diminished that a teenage whelp could take him down? Or maybe she’d summon Derek so that his nephew could smile that smug smile and shake his head at the latest misstep Peter had found himself taking. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He hadn’t planned for Hades to be here. He hadn’t planned to lose control again, not in front of her.

“Let me go,” she said, focused on the curled talons buried in the wood shingles. Hysteria ringed her quiet words, as well as a kind of resignation. She didn’t expect anything better from him. She didn’t think there was anything good left in him, and Lydia treasured goodness.

He had been, sometimes. He could be again, for her. But he couldn’t retract his claws. Concentrating, he tried to force the change. Pain tore through his spine, but nothing happened. He began to pant from the strain, his own panic building. It was like being trapped in the house during the fire. Like being trapped in the prison of his own body. Control, control. He needed to regain control.

Winding his head back and forth, he whined.

“What was that?” Her voice very small, Lydia tentatively touched his chest. “Peter? Are you hurt?”

God, the heat that exploded through him at that small touch.

A car peeled out on the street, and he was done. Tearing his hand out of the wall, he scooped her up in his arms. Pulling her against his chest, he peered into the trees. He couldn’t stay here. He needed to run.

“Uhm.” Lydia’s fingers tugged at his collar. Her eyes were round, her lush lips pursed. “Can we go inside, instead of running off into the woods like cave people?”

“How can you stand to touch me?” he asked. The rough jumble of words made him wince. He sounded like the beast she took him for.

“It’s easier,” she murmured, as if making an admission, “when you’re being gentle.”

He looked down. His claws had retracted. With a grinding slide, the bones of his upper body realigned themselves until he was human again. Eyes wide and solemn, Lydia looked up at him. Her hand spread itself across his chest, fingertips brushing his neck, and he had to open his mouth to get a deep enough breath.

He’d meant to claim her. He hadn’t anticipated losing himself to her in the process.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with angering gods is that gods don't forget. Which Peter Hale is about to learn.

She should have been freezing after being outside, but she wasn’t. It was the fire, roaring away in the fireplace. Yes, definitely that. It had nothing, nothing at all to do with the man prowling around her mother’s carefully staged living room glaring at all the furniture like it wasn’t good enough to set her on. It had nothing to do with the strength of the arms holding her or the way his bright blue eyes – heavy with concern – came back to her face every few seconds.

“What you did was exceedingly stupid,” he said.

Of course he’d have to speak and ruin the moment. Lydia squirmed, shoving at him when his arms only clamped more tightly around her.

“Put me down.”

“So you can run off and make another deal with the devil?” He sneered.

“He’s not the devil.” The devil might look like that, but he wouldn’t have asked. He would have taken. “And you’re not one to talk. It sounds like you’ve already made at least one deal with him. I hope you got something good for me.”

Peter lowered her legs until her feet touched the floor, then slid his arm from around her back up to her shoulder. His palm cupped the nape of her neck as he inclined his head until he was a bare inch away. Lydia licked her lips, remembering the feel of him against them. His eyes followed the movement of her tongue, and his fingers stroked the column of her neck. But he didn’t kiss her again, which wasn’t fair. She was haunted by the taste of him.

“He misled you,” Peter said, wrenching his eyes up to hers. “Gods think it’s funny to toy with mortals.”

“Unlike you? Isn’t that sort of your specialty?”

His hand rested on her side, over the place where he’d bitten her. He made a thoughtful noise, as if agreeing with her, then straightened. When he spoke again, his voice was lighter.

“You’re right. But I did not make a deal to give you away.” Noticing the torn fragments of his jacket, he shrugged out of it and tossed it onto the couch. Jostling her laptop with the toe of his boot, he woke it, then frowned at the screen and her books. “You summoned him? On purpose?”

“I wasn’t looking for _him_.” Her voice hitched somewhere along the way and Lydia turned to face the fire. Better than to see him laughing at her.

“Your friend, Allison? You sought her?” She heard him walk closer, but he didn’t touch her and she wrapped her arms around her middle.

“I can’t hear her,” she heard herself say, and once those words were loose she couldn’t stop the rest from flooding out. “All these voices screaming at me, and I can’t hear her. What’s the point…” Her hands rose, clutching at the air in front of her. “Of bearing this ability, enduring the noise, if I can’t hear the one person I want to?”

Peter’s hands closed lightly on her arms, and he breathed against her hair when she swayed against him.

“The strengths we rely on have a way of failing us when we need them most,” he said. “Hades offered to help you?”

Lydia opened, then closed her mouth. She couldn’t exactly remember what Hades had said, but she’d felt like he was going to help. “Yes.”

“And so you want to go into his realm?”

He wasn’t yelling at her, and it didn’t sound like he was mocking her. Suspicious, Lydia said, “Yes. Why?”

“You can’t go in unprepared.”

Spinning around, she put her hands on her hips. “Why not?”

“I didn’t say you can’t go. I said you can’t go in unprepared. I brought something for you that might help.”

***

He could see her skepticism. She was trying to hide it, but not succeeding. She expected trickery from him, which was fine. He would prove that he was trustworthy, and at least she was no longer frightened. Her fear did things to him, twisted him inside out and brought the beast in him to the front. It wanted to protect her. It wanted to do other things with her that wouldn’t be right. Not yet.

“Oh, yeah? What did you bring me?” She crossed her arms, then her eyes narrowed at something near his leg. Peter glanced down in time to see Mnemosyne’s Dream slither out of the shredded remains of his jacket and pool on the floor.

Kneeling, he picked it up.

“What’s that supposed to do for me in the underworld?” she asked, her brows knitting together uncertainly. As if it might bite her. As if he would give her something that would hurt her. The beast, still so close to the surface, bared its teeth. Peter closed his eyes, hiding the telltale light. He wouldn’t give Lydia another reason not to trust him, wouldn’t add to that tower.

“This?” He spun it between his fingers, knowing the firelight would catch it. She liked pretty things, which was only fitting. “Nothing. This has only to do with you and your gift. Those whispers you can’t quite hear, it should help you to catch them.”

The beast subsided and he opened his eyes. She hadn’t moved, but was tense all over, her shoulders drawn up and hands clutching the opposite elbow. He walked toward her, holding the necklace between them.

“It doesn’t look powerful,” she said. “Just pretty.”

He chuckled low. “That describes a couple of things in this room tonight, doesn’t it?”

She flushed, her lips bowing up into a smile before she caught herself. He circled behind her, stretching his arms over her shoulders. Her head bowed as she followed the bright strands. He should fasten it, then take her to the car to show her his actual gift. He should be a gentleman.

He let the woven gold fall against her chest, on the taut fabric between her breasts, and almost groaned at her small gasp that escaped her. He wanted to grab her, to pull her to him. His hands nearly trembled with the need to take, to possess.

But this was Lydia. He hadn’t always been nice, but he knew better now.

He dragged the necklace up, reveling as each strand slid over the top of that tiny shirt and landed against her sweet skin. She pulled her mass of red hair up and lifted it away from her neck. That was even worse. He could smell the sweet herbs of her hair product, and wanted to lick the tiny cleft between her shoulder blades.

Swallowing, he fastened the clip then swung her around – almost roughly – so that he wouldn’t be tempted to bite her. Her eyelashes dusted her cheeks as she stroked the strands and ran her fingertips around the small, round gems. So alluring. Lydia wasn’t a banshee; she was a siren. And she wasn’t even trying.

Her cheeks rounded, still flushed, as she smiled. It was a gift, her pleasure. His throat nearly closed around an emotion he couldn’t even name.

“It’s lovely.” She glanced up shyly. “Thank you, Peter.”

“If you liked that, you’ll love this next one.”

Her head tilted. “You brought me another present?”

He’d bring her a thousand presents if he thought it would help. Grabbing a fuzzy throw from the couch, he wrapped it around her. Protecting her from the cold and him from the sight of her.

“That was a present. This one is a tool that might help you with Hades, and it’s in my car so find some shoes. And I hope you brought more substantial clothes than that because it’s cold in the underworld.”

“Peter.” Her hand on his shoulder stopped him when he was almost running to get out the door. “Why are you helping me?”

“You’ve put your mind to this so you’re going to find a way to do it. I’d rather you didn’t go alone. I have experience with traveling between planes.”

“Yeah, but why?”

It hurt this time, the distrust. Sighing, he gave her a snide smile. Let her see what she expected.

“I have other objects like that,” he said. “I don’t know what they do, and you might be able to help with that. You’re useful to me, an investment.”

“Useful?” Hurt shaded her eyes before she lifted her chin. “I see.”

He turned away. Behind him she fumbled into a pair of shoes. It wasn’t running. He just needed out and away from those eyes, all that skin, the outline of her body beneath that thin fabric.

“I should call someone,” she said. “Let them know where we’re going.”

_We_. Pride filled his chest, but he also wanted to whine and lie down at her feet.

“We’ll be back before you know it,” he said, yanking the door open. “Time passes differently there.”

He took a single step onto the porch when the stench of brimstone hit him. His canines were still descending when a barbed net descended around him and tore him out of the earthly plane.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Hale has been dragged to the underworld, and Lydia isn't about to give him up without a fight.

He’d told Lydia that the underworld wasn’t Hell, but with a hundred curved barbs digging into his skin, it sure felt like it.

Groaning, Peter twisted to look at the people – things – whatever – that had captured him. The man dragging him along the rocky ground was massive. Legs like tree trunks and a back covered in spiky, black fur. He wore some kind of leather harness and a horned helmet. It was possible he had a snout as well. Taken down by an overgrown, upright pig. Outstanding. Thank goodness there was nobody around to see.

Thank goodness Lydia hadn’t been closer to him when they’d come. He closed his eyes, breathing against the pain and keeping his wolf contained even though it wanted to rise. Fighting now might get him free but it wouldn’t get him home. It would be better to play hurt and hope they underestimated him. Then he could get back to Lydia.

***

“Peter?” She was repeating herself, Lydia knew that. But he wasn’t answering and he’d been right _there_. She shuffled to the door in untied shoes and leaned out.

Dim street noises. The shushed rattle of the breeze through the remains of the leaves. No sign of the blue-eyed werewolf. Well, he was good at running away. With a sniff, she reached out to shut the door. Then froze. Her hand began to tremble before she realized what she was looking at. Blood, tiny droplets splattered across the small panes of glass. Peter hadn’t run away. He was taken.

And she couldn’t feel him at all.

For the first time since that night, with the cold dirt scraping the underside of her fingernails as he dragged her across the field, she couldn’t feel him. He didn’t push or pull her anymore, not from inside her own mind anyway. Funny how the strongest hold he’d ever had on her had been when he was dead. When she felt lost to him now, she was aware of every minute, every second, of the experience.

Droplets ran together and dripped onto the welcome mat, and Lydia shivered. He had attacked Hades. There was no way that wasn’t a criminal act in the other plane. What were they going to do with him, and which version of Peter would he be when he came back? If he came back.

He’d said he had something that would help her with Hades. It might be a trick, some side bet he’d made with the lord of the underworld. But the way he’d behaved tonight – right until he’d shut that door inside of him – she didn’t think he was trying to pull anything. Wrapping her hoodie tight around her shoulders, she walked out into the night. His SUV was at the top of the driveway, gleaming and black. It barely had a speck of dust on it.

The driver’s side was unlocked. He’d tear apart anybody who dared touch his stuff most likely. Lydia climbed in, running her hands over the smooth leather and opening and closing storage spaces. Nothing. He didn’t even have a map in the glove compartment. Actually he didn’t have a registration either. The car was new, but over that sticker-fresh smell was Peter’s scent – masculine, slightly spicy. She closed her eyes. She never had time to think when he was around. Even when he was prowling – he did that, especially when he wanted something – everything always felt so rushed. It was like he didn’t want her to have time to think, like he had something he needed to hide.

She could take all the time she wanted, now. He was a survivor. Wherever he was, he would survive. And if he didn’t…well, she’d know if death were coming for him. She didn’t like that idea. If she’d been around when Allison’s aunt had gone all psycho pyro on the Hales, she would have known. Maybe she could have stopped it.

A car drove past and Lydia opened her eyes, but not because of the car. Because of the sound that filled the SUV, created by the vibration of the passing vehicle. She popped the trunk and walked around to the back. A duffel bag held a neatly folded set of clothes. Jeans, a faded green Henley, and a pair of black boxer briefs. Blushing, she glanced around but she was the only one on the street. She zipped the duffel hastily. A rough burlap bag sat next to it, on a wool blanket that had been curled into a kind of nest. The sound came again, like high-pitched chimes, when she opened the bag. Inside were three apples. One gold, one silver, and one that was tarnished, with bright green veins. Oxidized copper.

Apples sounded very mythological. Weren’t gods always tricking humans and each other with magical fruits and animals and whatnot?

Pulling her sleeve up, Lydia reached into the bag. Her fingers brushed against the gold apple, and the world turned inside out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate to find Peter, Lydia is pulled into the underworld where an old friend awaits her.

“Well,” Lydia muttered to herself, “it ain’t Kansas.”

And it certainly wasn’t Earth. Or the earthly plane. She should have studied more multiverse theory. Not that such a place would show up in a physics textbook. No, the underworld was straight out of myth. But it was real. Her eyes darted about, from a stand of twisted, leafless trees to a series of low wallows in the ground.

Everything was gray, from the ground to the pale dust coating her hands to the charcoal mountains in the distance. Everything was gray except her, and what should have been muted colors – the creamy blue veins beneath her skin, the pale green pajama bottoms she wore – were garishly bright.

The air felt heavy, and a chalky taste was already settling in the back of her throat. She hadn’t thought to ask Peter whether the air was breathable down here. It wasn’t meant for the living and, as a werewolf, he’d be able survive harsher conditions than she ever could. But somehow she didn’t think he would have offered to bring her here if it would hurt her.

She still held the bag she’d had a grip on. Inside, the three apples were nearly indistinguishable. One was a little brighter. One appeared more tarnished. But she couldn’t tell which was the gold one, and who even knew if touching it again would take her home. It was like being in Wonderland, except she hadn’t grown taller or smaller and there weren’t any tricksy creatures around.

Shivering, she folded her arms in front of herself and spun slowly in a circle. There was no telling how large the space was. The horizon behaved differently, as if there were fluctuations in the angle of the ground meeting the sky. It gave her a headache, just trying to track it. What if something showed up, like that Cerberus or whatever had snatched Peter, and tried to grab her? Or decided it was ‘off with her head’ time?

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose. That was enough of those thoughts. Irrational thoughts. Lydia Martin was logical. The banshee side of her might follow different rules, but there _were_ rules, and learning them had made her flexible in other things. She could handle this.

So she was in a different dimension. Not a problem. Hades had invited her, and even if she hadn’t crossed over with him, that invitation still stood. So she was safe, probably. She just had to find Peter and get them both back. No problem. So, how did one pick a single soul out of a leadscape full of the dead?

“Oh!” She didn’t have to use a werewolf dowsing stick or taste the dirt like a tracker in an old spaghetti western. The underworld should be full of her specialty – the dead. If Peter were as vivid as she was, somebody would have noticed him. She just had to listen in.

Closing her eyes, she tried to empty her mind. Her hand clenched around the bag in anticipation of the onslaught. Empty, empty.

She shook her head in frustration. She was too tense. This whole situation was so strange. It was like trying to force herself to go to sleep when she had a big test the next morning. Each calming thought was replaced by a stressful one. Except, these weren’t all stressful. She thought of the way that gravity shifted when she was in Peter’s arms. She held her breath and remembered Hades offering his hand. The sounds that meant Allison invaded next. That stupid song she played on repeat for two weeks then sang to herself for another two. The creak of the string when she drew a certain kind of bow tight. The dense thunk of an arrow splitting the bark of a tree.

_The song, in Allison’s breathy voice._

_The creak._

_The split._

Voices began to flow into her mind. A faint breeze lifted strands on hair away from her shoulders. Opening her eyes, Lydia gasped. All around her were people. Gray people, dressed in strange clothes but they were simply…strolling about. They moved with purpose, some together, their heads bowed as though they were in conversation. A few of them weren’t quite right. Odd shapes and inhuman anatomies. A few dragged things behind them: wooden carts like primitive wheelbarrows; shapeless bundles of fabric; and chains. Those ones looked like they were in pain.

The murmurs grew louder, more clear. They talked amongst themselves. They talked about her. The underworld wasn’t empty. It had just taken her some time to find its frequency. But it certainly knew she was there.

Eyes turned toward her, curious and blinking but eerie in that the whites and irises were both gray. She looked up and took an involuntary step back. It wasn’t the wind moving her hair. Wispy shapes swirled overhead. Fragments of them partially solidified into hands as they reached for her.

One of the hands snatched at her hair, catching a few strands and ripping them loose, and Lydia flinched away. Her heart began to pound. The chalky air burned in her lungs.

_The split._

_The creak._

_That song, in Allison’s breathy voice._

“Lydia?”

She knew that voice. Of the thousands of voices flowing through her mind now, this one she recognized. This one, she would always recognize. She turned, not knowing what to expect. Would she be whole? Would she be dragging something? Lydia turned.

Allison’s face smiled at her, all dimples and bright eyes. Or, they would have been bright if they weren’t gray.

“Oh, God.” Lydia pressed her lips against her mouth. Allison’s smile faded. She looked down at herself – as solid as she had been when she lived – and plucked at the hem of her shirt.

“I don’t look that bad, do I?”

Lydia shook her head as tears filled her eyes and her throat tried to close. “No,” she rasped. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Allison rolled her eyes – still creepy. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded.

“I look like crap. When you recover from your shock, you’ll notice, I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Lydia asked.

Allison’s expressed hardened, and she glanced around before moving closer. She still smelled the same, somehow.

“Why do the scents of hair products and body wash transcend death?” Lydia asked.

Allison laughed. “That’s more like it. Unfortunately, I have no idea how this works.” She raised her arms tentatively, and Lydia grabbed her and pulled her close. She was warm and soft, and those graceful arms of hers were still surprisingly strong. Allison.

“But why didn’t you call me?”

Allison pulled back and glanced around, then tugged Lydia aside as another wisp-hand reached for her. She pulled her bow off of her shoulder and drew an arrow from a thigh quiver.

“Because,” she said, notching it. “If I’d called, you would have come. And it isn’t safe for you here.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after hearing the voices of the dead for so long, Lydia hears the one voice she'd longed for for so long. Allison. Allison is dead, but she remembers Lydia and the people she left behind. Oh, and she remembers Peter Hale too, and disapproves.

“Why the hell…” Lydia sucked in a couple of shallow breaths. “Is Hell so big?”

Allison crouched above her, peering over the crest of a steep rise. The steep rise she’d just sprinted up as if it were nothing. Lydia struggled the last few steps, jostling her friend as she dropped beside her. Allison struggled to hide a grin. Lydia elbowed her, but there was no force behind it.

“It’s not actually Hell, you know,” Allison said, turning slowly to survey the land. Lydia tried to see what her friend was seeing. Gray, gray. More gray. How did she tell the good gray from the bad?

“I know. It’s the underworld, realm of the dead, ruled by Hades. It’s just a little hellish to be chased by a mob of ghouls who all inexplicably share a rabid hair fetish.”

Allison rubbed her back, then reached up to pluck a few… things out of her hair. She tossed them away and caught Lydia’s chin when she would have turned to look. Lydia was just able to see…

Her eyes widened. “Were those-”

“Don’t think about it.”

“-fingers?”

Allison scrunched her nose and Lydia threw her hands up and shook her head.

“Of course. Of course that’s what I get for coming here. Fingers, the gift that keeps on giving.”

Allison’s eyes sparkled. “In some cases.”

Lydia’s mouth dropped open on a pretend gasp. “You perv!”

Giggling, they leaned shoulder to shoulder. She was so glad to see her. Even though she looked different, she was still so perfectly _her_. And if Allison was herself, maybe others were themselves, too. Maybe Aiden was here. That thought sent a wave of sadness through her, sadness and guilt. She hadn’t been able to predict anyone’s death yet, hadn’t been able to stop bad things from happening. She wanted to, wanted her intuition to stir a few minutes earlier, wanted the voices to direct her more clearly. She didn’t want to see anyone else die, didn’t want to have to feel it.

Allison tapped her shoulder and pulled her down even lower, stirring up that fine, chalky dirt. Lydia covered her mouth as she coughed. The creatures Allison had spotted – these ones were definitely part of a non-human species – paused before walking on.

“Are they like the wolves?” Lydia whispered. “Super hearing and all that?”

“No.” Allison’s expression turned regretful. “Things are kind of…amplified here. I’m stronger, faster, more precise with my bow.”

“A better hunter.”

“A better version of me. I’ve mastered moves my dad gave up trying to teach me.” Allison’s smile was sad.

“He’s doing okay,” Lydia said, her heart twisting for her friend. She knew that death wasn’t the end, not for everybody. She heard the pleas and laments, the screams and prayers. She just hadn’t realized that anyone could continue with the same memories and consciousness as before, just in a different place.

“He compartmentalizes,” Allison said, drawing a design in the dirt with her finger, “but he’s been through so much. Betrayal. Loss.”

“But he’s also had more than most people,” Lydia said, desperate to cheer Allison up. “He adored you. Even with the ‘bring a werewolf to dinner’ debacle, you were so good together. You cherished each other. Every moment you had was worth so much more than merely the time that passed. Some people don’t have that with their parents ever. Some people don’t have that with anyone, ever.”

Lydia’s dad had visited a few times after her parents split up, but the visits got shorter and shorter. The last time, he’d barely talked to her, spending all his time watching a football game and texting with someone. Her mom, even though she was still in Beacon Hills, felt almost as distant. Lydia was independent. Hell, she liked her freedom. But being free didn’t mean she didn’t want anyone to think of her.

Allison wiped at the tears staining black paths along her cheeks, and nodded. She forced a smile, even as her chin wobbled.

“What if…what if we could get you back?” Lydia whispered.

“No.” Allison shook her head. “Do you see how different you are here, how vivid? That’s why the ghouls were attracted to you and ignored me. They’re from here, some kind of scavenger that feeds off of things we lose along the way. Unless they hang around the Great Hall, they may never see a living being in their lives. You feel different. It’s like…a warm vibration.”

“I’m vibrating?” Lydia raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, with the energy of life.” Allison stood, adjusting her bow. “I don’t have that anymore. If I were to leave, I’d crumble into this.” With a sweep of her hand, she indicated the chalky dust blowing along the ground. Lydia scrambled to her feet, clutching the bag of apples to her chest.

“That’s _people_?”

“That’s a metaphor. Ashes to ashes. Eww. No, we aren’t walking on people.”

“Forgive my morbid imagination,” Lydia huffed. Then she sighed. “So this is it. The only place, maybe the only time I’ll ever see you again.”

“With all the strangeness in the world, who knows.” Allison’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in the bag?”

Lydia showed her. “Do you know what they are?”

“No. Where did you get them?”

“From Peter.”

Allison’s expression turned fierce. “Why are you still associating with him? I know that he can be charming, but a little charm doesn’t make him a good person.”

“He isn’t a good person. But I think he’s getting better.”

“He wants you to think that,” Allison snapped. “That’s all. He made you save him once, forced you to. But there is nothing worth saving in him.”

“Huh.” Lydia started making her way down the embankment. Maybe Allison was right, but she hadn’t seen him the way Lydia had. Nobody else had. She’d seen him at his worst, at his most cruel and most selfish. And she’d endured his sweet, barbed charm. But she’d also seen him struggle, seen him throw out attitude when he felt himself wobbling toward genuine emotion. She’d felt him when he started to give in. He was changing. Whether he’d ever be good, she wasn’t yet sure.

“What ‘huh’?” Allison asked, catching up to her. “I don’t like that tone. That sounds like the sound of a plan. What are you planning? Are you planning something with Peter?”

“I’m planning to do something about Peter.”

“What do you mean, about him?”

“He’s here.”

“Dead? Again?”

“Not this time. Hades has been visiting our world. Visiting me, to be precise. Peter…defended me against him. So the lord of the underworld dragged him down. And I want to drag him back.”

Allison closed her eyes and groaned. “Damn it, Lydia.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the first time Peter's been chained in a dungeon. It's not even the worst dungeon he's been chained in. The person who chained him, however - the cruel wife of a powerful god - is a problem. And Peter, who has escaped fire and madness and death itself, may not be able to escape this time.

He didn’t remember it being so quiet. The last time he was in the underworld, it was to attend a market, a day when the dead could barter the possessions they’d brought with them. Sometimes it was the things they’d had with them when they died. Lots of weapons – obviously not as useful as they’d hoped – and dented shields and helmets, that sort of thing. Keepsakes, small items they’d kept close to their hearts. That was a bummer, watching the dead weep their gray tears over their gray faces. If they liked their trinkets so much, they should have just kept them.

Peter shifted on the cold stone. Light flickered through the slats in the metal door, bright yellow and orange. Color meant he was in the Great Hall, Hades’ home. It was the only place the god permitted it, out of consideration of his wife, Persephone. Persephone, the embodiment of grace and replenishment. She’d also been the one who’d sent the band of hideous thugs to snatch Peter. Generally he admired a woman of action, but this…

He tried to stand and the heavy chains tugged at his wrists and ankles, pulling him off balance. His talons lengthened, what remained of them. He’d already tried to claw his way free, but earthly werewolf claws were no match for Olympian-forged steel. He could chew through his arm, but he’d have to break it first and he wasn’t quite that desperate.

Still, it was very quiet.

“Has nobody else committed a heinous crime and been tossed in the dungeon?” he called out. His voice echoed through his small cell, and through those around him. He was the lone occupant of a subterranean dungeon. Alone, with only his thoughts.

There was a reason he was drawn to Derek’s pack of teenagers – Scott McCall’s, now. They were loud, always in motion, and their feelings were always on the cusp of overwhelming them. They were alive, which he needed after the coma, after going so long without being sure that he’d ever return to a real life. Those long, lonely, painful years…

His heart began to pound. Whispers filled his head, not the voices of others, but his own voice – incoherent and full of rage. He grasped for something to focus on, to keep himself in control.

And then there was Lydia, miles beyond her little clique. Her dark, clever eyes saw more than the rest of them. Her quick mind grasped connections that others never would. Peter could spend hours, days, listening to her connect the dots on some small thing that was her whole world in that moment. He wanted her to focus on him like that, wanted her to purse her lip as she tried to figure him out. She would keep trying until she did. And then, if she were feeling charitable, maybe she would tell him what she saw. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as images of Lydia replaced the threat of madness darkening the corners of his mind.

Where was he? Oh, yes. Her lips. Her mouth, well, that was just sweet temptation. And her hands, so small and delicate, clawing at the grass as she tried to escape him… He didn’t like that. His wolf didn’t like that, stirring sleepily in agitation.

“You’re rather internally focused for a wolf,” a woman said.

Peter’s eyes flew open. He looked up, disoriented and angry, to find a statuesque blonde peering down at him.

“You’d make a terrible watchdog,” she said. “Oblivious, and whimpering in your sleep.” She crouched, her violet gown flowing out around her as she smiled a merciless smile. “What’s got you so upset, wolf?”

He raised one arm, making the chain jingle. “I’m not overly fond of this.”

“Then you should not have attacked my husband with it.” She stabbed something into the center of his palm, and Peter shouted and tried to pull away. The chains held him fast and he gaped at the tiny sliver of wood burrowing into his hand.

“What the hell is that?” It burned, and the sensation was traveling, creeping up his arm.

“It’s wood from the Chair of Forgetfulness.” Persephone stood, smiling radiantly. “Don’t worry. It’s only a small piece, so it isn’t going to empty your entire mind. I’ve had it modified. It will only take the memory of the thing you hold most dear.”

Lydia. He needed to make things right between them. He needed to make things good between them.

“Get it out,” he snarled, his fangs lengthening, his eyes glowing. His wolf didn’t like the captivity. He didn’t like the pain.

“No. Peter Hale, this is your sentence for attacking the one who is dearest to me. I could have made this much worse on you. What’s a single thread of memory compared to lifetimes of torture? Be glad that I am merciful.”

Fire clawed through his veins, scraping across nerve endings as it reached into his mind. Peter gritted his teeth, thrashing. The cuffs bit into his wrists. His hands slicked with hot blood. Persephone turned, her gown billowing out behind her, and sailed forth from his cell. She didn’t even bother closing the door behind her.

“No,” he growled, straining against the cuff. He could not lose her, could not lose a single memory of her.

Her hair, red like a startled ember. The bone cracked in his left arm and he jerked, breaking it clean through. The way she twisted her shoulders when she flushed, her entire body reacting to his words. He worked his arm up, took a deep breath, and bit deep. Her eyes, long lashes trembling as he lowered his mouth to hers. He shook, sweat breaking out across his neck. He couldn’t remember the exact color of her eyes.

“Lydia.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia finds Peter, but the Peter she finds is not the one who was taken. Something is very wrong, and she's running out of time to fix things.

“He doesn’t look hurt,” Allison muttered.

Lydia swallowed a growl of frustration and picked up the pace. Or she tried. She was tired. They’d been walking for what felt like years. Allison said that time didn’t just pass differently down there, it felt different. It felt like an extra helping of gravity, dragging at her stiff limbs. The omnipresent dust formed a film over her vision. It didn’t seem to be bothering Allison, whose senses were on overdrive. She’d heard the sound of a group walking along a dry river bed so far away that Lydia, squinting, could only see a dark ribbon over the land. And she’d spotted Peter ten minutes – or hours, or millennia – ago and Lydia could only now make out the shape of him.

But Allison was right. He walked toward them with purposeful strides, his head a little low in that way he had when he stalked something. That posture she was familiar with. She shivered and zipped the hoodie up to her chin. Allison stopped, staring into the distance as she was doing more and more often. Something was happening, something that had her hand clenching around her bow, and the fingers of her other hand dancing over her quiver.

“Do you need to go?” Lydia asked.

“No.” Allison’s head swung back around. She blinked a couple of times. “It’s…it’s nothing.”

“Remember what you two talked about,” came a male voice from beside her. Lydia turned to glare at the ghost…phantasm…guy. He was big, like really big. Burly, with biceps and triceps and those big muscles that stood out around the neck. Which was no wonder because he wore satin boxing shorts, in addition to the tape around his knuckles. Allison couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see the other one who’d suddenly appeared either, making Lydia scream a very unbanshee-like scream. That one was dressed and made up like a clown. Terrifying. They were both stuck, not quite dead but not quite alive either if they were showing up in the underworld. They said they’d both been drawn to Lydia, sensed her from a great distance. They could see Allison, but she couldn’t see or hear them. They’d been listening to the girls talk, and they were very opinionated about Peter.

“You need to make him wait. If he’s tricky, that’s not a good sign.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I refuse to take the advice of a comatose rodeo clown.”

“If he’s telling you to stay away from Peter, then he’s a smart comatose rodeo clown,” Allison said. “I don’t want you to be hurt again, not in any way.”

And those they cared about had the most potential to hurt them. She still cried sometimes, remembering Stiles possessed by the nogitsune. The way he’d carried himself, cocky in a way that Stiles couldn’t have faked if he was being paid. The flat malevolence of his eyes still haunted her. The problem with Peter was that he didn’t shift back and forth from sweet Peter to…not sweet. He was mercurial, always changing.

“You don’t have to protect me anymore,” Lydia said. Allison’s face pinched as she shook her head. “You did everything you could have. Everything.”

“I don’t want to forget you.”

“You won’t.” Lydia hugged her. “Or, if you do, I’ll be sure to remind you when I get down here for real.”

“Of course you will.” Allison smiled, her chin wobbling. She wiped at her cheeks as Peter neared.

“Well, well, well,” he said, eyes narrowing as he looked back and forth between them. “The late Argent. You’re looking well. A tad monochromatic.”

“And you’re looking surprisingly untortured.” Allison turned her shoulder toward him. He smirked at the aggressive posture, then turned to face Lydia.

The tan of his skin was refreshing after so little color. The blue of his eyes was beautiful, bright pools of comfort, or something very like it.

“And what are you doing down here?” he asked.

Lydia raised her chin. “I came to rescue you.”

He laughed – a short, sharp laugh. “You must be from the discount mercenary service.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, hands going to her hips.

“I mean no insult. You’re very pretty.” His gaze traveled over her pajamas, and he grinned. “But face it, sweetheart, you don’t look like much of a rescue party.”

“Look at that,” the clown said, drifting forward to examine him. Peter gave no sign that he sensed the ghost.

“Oh, yeah,” the boxer said, giving Lydia a sympathetic look. “There’s something wrong with your werewolf.”

He got defensive when he felt weak or exposed. Unfortunately that was normal.

“So where’s the portal?” Peter asked. As if he didn’t know that Lydia could open one at will.

“They let you go but didn’t send you back to the earthly plane?” Allison asked.

“No, they…” He frowned, his right hand clenching.

“He’s got something in his paw,” the clown said, snickering.

“Peter, do you remember being taken?” Lydia asked.

“I wasn’t taken. Persephone wanted to chat is all.”

“Persephone?” Lydia’s voice rose.

“Queen of the underworld, wife of Hades. You really should read up on the players before you take a job in another dimension.”

He’d been all over her when he discovered her in the woods. Now he was flippant, and barely even looking at her. Oh, something was very wrong. And it wasn’t merely his attitude.

“Who do you think she is?” Allison asked, pointing toward Lydia, whose heart began to race.

“Someone Derek hired.” He made an irritated gesture. “Can we go now?”

"No," Lydia said, shaking her head. He wasn't hurt, but he didn't remember her. All this, and he didn't even know her. "No."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter can identify the places in his memory where someone is missing, and he's beginning to suspect that Lydia is that someone. But he isn't quite sure how she fits. With underworld beasts in pursuit, he may not have a chance to find out.

The redhead confused him. He wanted to yell at her for bringing her fragile humanity into the land of the dead, and he wanted to speak quietly and slink at her feet until she relaxed around him. That second inclination was disturbing, really disturbing. It felt…vulnerable, close to rolling over and showing his throat. But the discomfort didn’t make him strike out or try to drive her away, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

The hunter was no help. The dead gave off no scent markers of their mood or thoughts, and while Allison kept herself firmly planted between him and the girl – who was clearly a friend and not a mercenary – that could have meant anything. Lydia. She was a bead of mercury with a hummingbird’s heart, her mood shifting and swiveling. She knew him, he was sure of it. But she wasn’t sure what he meant to her, and he felt himself holding his breath each time she glanced at him, hoping this time she would reveal herself. He wanted to know what he meant to her, what he might mean to her.

She crossed her arms over that bulky sweatshirt, stuck her nose in the air and followed the hunter’s footsteps. At least they were moving away from the hall of Hades.

“So,” Peter said, clapping his hands together. “How far to the portal?”

“It’s closer than you might think,” Lydia said through clenched teeth. She glanced away and shook her head slightly.

“Who is it you’re talking to, Red?” he asked, sliding behind Allison and inserting himself beside Lydia. He peered over her head, then lowered his eyes to her. “Did you bring an imaginary friend to the meet-up with your dead friend? Which one’s the third wheel in this scenario?”

“The only one who’s messing up the group dynamic is you, Peter.” She tripped toward him as though she’d been pushed. His hand grazed her elbow and she jerked her arm away. Her other hand came up to cover the spot he’d touched, but it wasn’t out of disgust. No, the sudden increase in her pulse and the heat that flooded her cheeks, that wasn’t disgust. That was pure, anxious desire. He found himself leaning closer.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here? You’re not a supernatural, and a human – a girl – like you shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

“I’ve been a lot of places I shouldn’t have gone,” she said, her lip curling up in what could have been a snarl. “Sometimes I was taken by people who had no right. But I came here for you, and you need to tell me what happened.”

She said it as if it mattered to her. Gone was the terse sarcasm. Her deep green eyes were somber, and something flickered in Peter’s mind, a moth-wing rustle in his memory. He inhaled deeply. Her scent was strong as there was nothing to interfere with it.

“What are you to me?” he asked, then stiffened as a blade pressed against the back of his neck. Allison Argent. She’d attacked him once in Derek’s loft, with one of those stunners the hunters were so proud of.

“You need to be very careful,” she said. “And you need to tell us the truth. Now.”

He rolled his head back to look at her, letting the blade slice shallowly into his skin.

“And if I don’t?”

“There’s someone following us – following you – and they’re closing fast. If you’ve done something that’s going to get Lydia hurt, then I will cut you and leave you here for them to find.”

“No.” The protest exploded out of him. It was an absolute denial, a fierce imperative. Nobody was allowed to hurt Lydia.

“Peter,” she murmured, desperation filling her quiet words. “Tell us.”

“I don’t know.” He stepped away from Allison, who didn’t pursue, and ran a hand through his hair. His mind was full of gaps, white spots that hummed but did not speak to him. “Persephone did something to me, as punishment. She…took something from me.”

“Punishment for what?” Lydia asked, her eyes narrowing shrewdly.

“I hurt her husband.”

“You attacked the lord of the underworld?” Lydia asked, circling him slowly. “Why? Wasn’t he a customer of yours? What would you have to gain from it?”

What, indeed? Hades was a true immortal, plus he was a good pay. Peter had nothing to gain from it, and he hadn’t been defending himself. He’d been facing the god, who’d stood half in, half out of a portal. There had been a Cerberus. There had been a fire crackling in a fireplace. There had been…

“The apples,” he said, remembering gathering them from his warehouse even when he couldn’t remember why. “That’s how you got here.”

Lydia shared a look with Allison before nodding. “You gave them to me.”

He looked her up and down, then rolled his eyes when he noticed the lumps in her pockets.

“They’re supposed to be kept together. They’re stronger that way.”

“I didn’t think you’d like the sound of them chiming together.”

He didn’t. It was like aluminum foil on a filling, times a thousand. But he wouldn’t have told anyone that. She turned suddenly, focused on something he couldn’t see. Her breath caught.

“We need to leave,” she said, eyes going wide. “There’s a Cerberus coming. A big one.”

Allison led them down a steep hill and into a canyon. They ran deeper and deeper, until the path narrowed so much they had to slow so they didn’t bounce off the jagged rocks.

“There,” the hunter whispered, touching Lydia’s shoulder and pointing. “Go there.”

Through the winding passage, Peter was just able to make out the dark slope of a rooftop. Lydia shook her head, unable to see it in the monochrome twilight. Her hair was so bright it looked like flame.

“I’ll go high,” Allison said, “and try to pick it off. If I can’t, I’ll lead it away.”

Lydia grabbed her arm. “No. You’re not facing that thing alone.”

Peter shook his head. How did she think she was going go fight it? She was tiny, human, and all she had were a couple of magical transportation apples. No weapons strapped to her back, no weapons to deploy from her body. Fragile. Still, she sounded fierce, like she both meant it and understood what it could mean.

“The creatures here are attracted to movement,” Allison said. “It’ll spot you two from miles away. I can blend in. And it won’t hurt me.” She shrugged, smiling even as her eyebrows drew together. “I belong here.”

They hugged, whispering things to each other that Peter turned away from. There were white spots in his memories of Allison, ones he was now certain had been occupied by Lydia. Some of those moments had been…tense. Persephone had stolen his memories of her somehow, but he remembered his feelings in those encounters. Anger. Exasperation. Guilt. Lust. Hope. The first two might have been attributable to the Argent, maybe even the third. But never the last two.

“We should go,” Lydia said. She stared up at the sharp rock face, which her friend scrambled nimbly up. Her arms went around her middle and, without looking at him, she continued to trudge down the path. Peter followed close behind her.

“An abandoned shack in a strange place. This always ends well in horror movies,” he drawled.

“Horror movies have nothing on my life,” Lydia said.

“Since you’re the kind of person who goes charging into Hell after bare acquaintances, I’m not sure I trust your judgment.”

She paused, nearly causing him to bump into her, then glanced back at him. Her eyes were full of questions, but instead of opening to let them out, her lips screwed up into a little moue.

“We need to keep moving,” he pointed out.

“You think I don’t know you?” she asked.

Peter moved closer, until his chest brushed her back. Her expression softened, all that speculation fading until a single question remained.

“I’m beginning to think we know each other, Red.” He wrapped a strand of hair around his finger and twirled it until his hand reached her jaw. “And I’m hoping that we can get to know each other much, much better.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in a small shack in the underworld, hunted by monsters, Peter tries to remember what Lydia is to him. Some questions may be better left unanswered.

After the second head stopped screaming, decidedly farther away than the first head, Peter made a fire. Lydia remained where she was, pressed against the rough wall, peeking out the sturdy door. The cabin was small, but it wasn’t an abandoned shack. In one half was a round table with three chairs, an open wood stove, and a little cupboard with a striped cloth hung over it instead of a door. In the other half was a pile of crumbling bricks that Peter deduced were the underworld equivalent of chopped wood, a bench with some kind of pressing machine, an assortment of pails, and a bed.

Being alone in a room with a bed and Peter, even with the strangeness of everything else, made Lydia absurdly self-conscious. Even as she stared out into the gloom, she was aware of her posture, of how close he stood to her when he ventured over to peer over her shoulder.

“You should be prepared for Allison not coming back,” Peter said.

Lydia shook her head and gripped the door more tightly. “She’ll come back. She’s stronger here, faster.”

“And that’s why she won’t return. She’s not the friend you remember. Death distills a person. Religion talks about souls going to Heaven or wherever. It’s not the soul but the essence of a person, their deepest strengths, weaknesses. She’s truly become her namesake – a hunter. She’ll chase the Cerberus down, then go after the next thing she considers prey.”

“She has gone after that dog, and she don’t look like she’s coming back,” the ghost clown said apologetically. He and the boxer had taken turns drifting through the walls of the cabin to check on the Cerberus.

“You make it sound like she won’t remember me. She knows who I am, even if she doesn’t look the same.” Lydia closed the door and leaned back against it. She was exhausted, and frustrated. “She might be dead, but you’re the one who doesn’t remember anything.”

“I remember everything,” Peter said, turning the stick he was using as a poker over in his hands. His blue eyes ran down her body, but it was a measuring look rather than a lascivious one. “Everything except for you.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I think it means you’re important.” He stood and gestured toward the hearth. “Here, it should warm up soon.”

Fires didn’t smoke in the underworld, it turned out. Lydia stepped closer, drawn by the flickering light that meant _heat_ in an old black-and-white movie kind of way. She held her hands out, then frowned. Fires in the underworld weren’t really all that warm, either.

“Be careful near it,” Peter said. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it, it’ll still burn you.”

As if she wasn’t used to that. At least in the underworld nothing masqueraded as a friend, then turned out to be evil. The monsters were monsters, and friends were friends even if they forgot about her and ran off never to return. Lydia sank down onto the stone, then inched away from the fire when it seemed to lick at her. She wished she’d had a chance to say good-bye properly, but maybe there was no proper farewell for someone who was already dead. She sniffled, then glanced up, expecting Peter to sneer at her for it.

“You need to eat something,” he said, no trace of sarcasm in his voice, “even if you aren’t hungry. Time and sensations are different here, so you have to monitor yourself.”

He poked around at the items on the shelf, and made a triumphant noise as he found something wrapped in cloth. He pulled a chair out from the rough table – not wood, but not quite stone – then looked at her expectantly. Lydia swallowed. He wasn’t flirting anymore. He was doing something worse, something more difficult to resist. He was trying to take care of her.

She came to the table, her face warming even though the cabin was still cool. Peter sat, angling his chair toward her as he unwrapped a pale gray loaf. The clown and boxer laid out in front of the fire with comfortable sighs. Clearly they could feel it. Great, now she was jealous of the dead.

“The stories all say you’re not supposed to eat anything down here,” Peter said. “But it’s fine so long as the food looks like this.”

“Like cake and bread made a lovechild out of clay?”

He smiled and handed her the first piece. “This is soda bread, I think. But, more importantly, it’s the same colors as this place, and as safe to eat as the air is to breathe. The food that’s used to tempt or trap live souls will look like real food, and then some. Bright, and more fragrant than anything you’ve ever eaten in your life. It will awaken all your senses, and be almost overwhelmingly tempting. That’s what you have to avoid.”

Temptation was almost always a component of manipulation, in her experience. And while she could figure out when a scheme wasn’t to her advantage, temptation was harder to walk away from than manipulation. What was so wrong with want that it was always accompanied by pain? Rejection. Heartbreak. Loss.

“So what about you is so important?” Peter asked, taking a bite of the crumbling bread. Lydia picked at it. It tasted like sweet dust. “Persephone didn’t steal my memories of you as a joke.”

“What kind of joke would that be?” she asked, confused.

“Oh, it’s a good one.” He laughed as if recounting a funny story. “You take the memories of someone’s mortal enemy from them, then sit back and watch them stand there and be slaughtered.”

Lydia stopped eating. “I fail to see the humor in that.”

“Well.” He waved a hand. “The joke’s not for everyone. So you don’t hate me. And you don’t appear to be harboring anything of value, nothing that I didn’t give to you anyway.”

“Why would I be carrying around my valuables?” Lydia asked, clasping her hands together so that she wouldn’t reach for the necklace he’d draped around her neck. It lay beneath her hoodie, warm and quiet against her chest.

“You aren’t shy, Red. If you had something, you’d be flaunting it.”

“If it coordinated, maybe,” she said with a shrug. “The priceless objects of power I come across tend to be gaudy.”

“And Lydia doesn’t do gaudy. Noted. You have a talent for talking to the dead, but I have no need of that.” Peter laughed when her eyebrows rose.

“I noticed your little conversations.”

“You don’t seem to find banshees all that unusual,” she said, watching him closely.

“Not common, but not very useful either. It…” He trailed off, his gaze turning inward. Lydia straightened in her seat. Maybe he was remembering, not that she wanted him to remember the use he did once have for a banshee.

“Did Hades bring you here?” he asked. “He was looking for someone to interrogate some of his citizens, the ones who refused to bow and scrape for him.”

Lydia had to work to keep her shoulders from slumping. He hadn’t remembered her, only how she could be useful for others.

“He asked me to help him, but that’s not why I came.”

“You came for me,” Peter mused, leaning back and crossing his hands behind his head. “Why would you do that? What do I owe you? Did one of your ghostly friends mention something to you, some fancy heirloom that a girl like you just couldn’t wait to get her fingers on?”

“And why would you figure that?” Lydia snapped.

“Oh, come on.” Peter gave her an indulgent smile. “You’re the kind of girl who wants to turn every head when she walks into a room. You inspire a quarter of the deadly sins just by leaving the house – envy, lust, probably a few homicidal thoughts as well. Judging by your age, you recently came into your banshee powers, right? Learned what they could do for you. A couple of kind words to the wailing dead, and they spill all their secrets. I’ll bet they tell you where all the treasures and jewels are hidden, and you need me to go recover something for you.”

“You think I came to hell,” she sputtered, so angry she could barely get the words out, “to be chased by those creatures, for an object?”

“Well, sweetheart, it’s not like you followed me down here because you’re in love with me.”

She jerked as if she’d been struck. He’d said all those terrible things to her then capped it off with the insinuation that she wasn’t capable of love.

“I don’t listen in on the dead. They scream and whisper, drag me around so it feels like not a week goes by that I’m not stumbling over some bloody body. I look into their eyes and see nothing. They’re vacant, destroyed. But their anguish? It lives on, in my head. Every day. So no, I’m not trawling the dead to find out where their baubles are buried. I do my best not to listen. Down here, at least everybody’s thoughts stay with them rather than infesting my mind. This is the first peace I’ve had since you-”

She stopped abruptly.

“Since I _what_ , Lydia?” he asked urgently.

Maybe it would be better if he didn’t remember. Maybe he’d stop pushing her, stop giving her those sidelong glares that she caught sometimes, like she was a problem he wanted not solved but removed from his life. She closed her eyes, but he didn’t disappear.

Instead he knelt in front of her, hands coming up to brace on the edges of her chair. In contact with her but not purposefully touching her. Her pulse sped up. She’d been close to a lot of boys, close to a few men. Aiden used to do this, cage her in and watch her until she couldn’t stand it and pushed him away. Domination, intimidation, making her flinch first. An alpha’s way to amuse himself. Peter had done that, too, usually while needling her. She opened her eyes, ready for a battle. But it was different this time. His head was lower than hers. His gaze was soft and inquiring.

“Lydia, please.”

Not pushing. Asking.

***

She was hurt. Not physically injured. Her creamy skin was flawless, her movements graceful. If there’d been any physical weakness his wolf side would have noted it, and she wasn’t rousing any predatory instincts in him. She was a banshee, powerful enough to walk the underworld – and to have picked up a couple of acolytes – but not powerful enough to trigger the fiercer side of his nature. Or maybe it wasn’t about power but about attitude. She wasn’t hostile toward him, and that was a rare thing among the people who knew him. His own family was hostile toward him, even Malia who had known him for a drop of time. And his friends…well, that didn’t require in-depth analysis. There were none. But here was Lydia, who was something to him, and while she wasn’t hurt it was as if she bore a permanent bruise. And he had a feeling that he had caused it.

“Did I take something from you?” he asked carefully. Her gaze shot to him, eyes rounded with dismay. Oh, he didn’t like that.

“Is it something I can return to you?”

If she’d been a wolf she would have bristled. He was doing this wrong. He should be smoother, calmer. He had no investment here. If she’d ever mattered to him, she didn’t now. So why was he leaning closer, moving slowly and watching her for any sign of increased distress? Why was his chin tipping down until his head rested on her slim shoulder?

Her pulse fluttered in her throat. So alive, so delicate. So delicious that he had to move closer, until his lips brushed soft, warm skin. He didn’t go any further. He didn’t need to. A dreamy sort of contentment filled him, so comforting that he would have been suspicious of supernatural interference if he hadn’t been fully in possession of his faculties. Lydia was letting him touch her. He could stay right there and be happy.

She wasn’t so patient, though. She shifted. Her hair brushed against his skin. Her scent washed over him.

“Tell me what I can do,” he murmured, delighting when she shivered. Her scent strengthened, and his eyes half closed. The pressure of his missing memories increased and restlessness filled his body. He could have stalked her for a year and she never would have noticed him. But he wanted Lydia to see him.

“Peter,” she whispered, her hand rising between their bodies to cup his jaw.

He kissed her neck, the sensitive spot behind her ear, the softness of her mouth. He tasted her lips and knew that he’d tasted her sweetness before even if he couldn’t exactly remember the experience. He brushed his fingers over her throat, feeling each little moan that rose out of her. Her haughty exterior melted in his hands, beneath his mouth.

Her fingers threaded through his hair and closed around a handful of it. She was molten, and he’d made her that way. Whatever he’d taken, he could distract her from. Whatever he’d done, he could coax her into forgiving.

When his hand slid beneath her shirt to stroke the base of her spine, his wolf roused. A fleeting bite against his mind, a warning to take care. She was young. He knew that. Self-possessed as she was, experienced as she seemed or made herself seem, he needed to go slow.

“You want me to stop,” he said against her neck, “you tell me to stop. Or, if you can’t say it, push me or pinch me.”

She laughed, a brilliant, breathy sound. “I’m not going to pinch you.”

“I’m pretty tough.” He grinned, pulling her against his chest. “I can take it.”

“Fine.” She pinched his shoulder, so lightly it barely registered.

“Come on, Red. You can do better than that. Make me feel it.” His hand skimmed down her side, aiming for the soft side of her belly. Instead he felt hard, slick-smooth skin around rough grooves.

She gasped out a sound of distress, but he’d already thrown himself backwards and away from her. Away from the jagged scars and, God, if he could have he’d have thrown himself away from his wolf, which reared up inside his mind to proclaim, _Mine_. So smug, so satisfied.

_Mine_.

All his memories rushed back to him in the space of two heartbeats. Every encounter with her. Every touch, every glance, every tear, every word. And that night. He wished Persephone had scraped his mind empty of all thoughts and all memories. That fucking night.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did I do to deserve you, Peter Hale?”
> 
> “You brought me back.”

His eyes were wild, but it wasn’t with the black madness she’d seen from him before. It was more like...panic.

“Peter.” She took a step toward him, then jerked to a halt when he tore chunks out of the table.

“Don’t…come…any…closer.” The words grated out of him.

The boxer crowded against Lydia, a cold presence at her side, but when he reached out to pull her back, she pushed aside his suddenly-solid arm.

“Why not?” she asked.

“It’s all coming back to me. All of it.” He rubbed at his chest, digging in until his claws sliced ribbons from his shirt. Blood beaded in the scratches beneath. He didn’t seem to notice, his head low. “And I can’t…contain it. It’s too much. I need to leave.”

“No.” Lydia stalked right up to him, trembling even as she raised her chin in challenge. “Not now. Not after all this time.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I was there. I know exactly what happened and I know exactly what you should be feeling right now. Guilt.”

His eyes locked on hers. His had gone neon blue. Beneath them, his teeth were sharpening, elongating. He touched her cheek, leaving behind a thin streak of blood.

“I’m not sorry,” he said, but there was a petulance to the insistence. It was a childish denial, a refusal to admit to the truth that everybody knew. “In the end, what I did helped you.”

“I was born a banshee,” she said, ignoring the spirits calling at her to stop. The man in front of her was more than half monster and had haunted the worst of her nightmares for months. But if she stopped now, she’d never be able to tell him and she needed to. Carrying the pain he’d caused had diminished her, but he was right. She _was_ more, now. “My abilities would have come out eventually. You can say whatever you want, but you know the truth. You used me because you thought I would keep you strong. You gambled on your greed, and I was the one who paid the price. You hurt me because you wanted everybody in the world to hurt alongside you. And you kept at it because, if you stopped, you’d have to face what you’d done. Why do you want to make it worse? Why do you want me to keep hurting?”

His head swung back and forth. “Lydia, stop. I can’t feel this. I _can’t_.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t get to play the feelings card.”

“I’m not playing,” he shouted, the growl reverberating through the small space.

A cold fissure went through Lydia. He wasn’t trustworthy. He could snap and end her life in the matter of a moment. He could. He almost had once already. But she needed to know.

“What did _I_ do to deserve you, Peter Hale?”

“You brought me back.” His hand clamped against her side, fingers digging roughly into the grooves his teeth had left in her flesh. “You brought me back and, when you did, you changed me. Everything I ever did was out of necessity, but now that you’ve gotten under my skin, half the things I’ve done feel wrong. Half the things I think, half the things I want…wrong. You got inside of my head and made me want to be good, Lydia.”

He spun her around, and she crashed against the wall. She touched his shoulder, and he caught her hand and stretched it over her head. Very deliberately, she stroked her other hand up his chest, shivering when he shuddered. He grabbed her wrist and pressed that arm against the wall. Jackson used to hold her in place until she stopped trying to get loose. He’d smirk at her, so pleased with his strength over her.

Peter’s eyes never left hers, as if he were searching for answers. And he wasn’t smiling. He looked anguished. His upper lip had curled over fangs that slid up and down, like his body couldn’t handle the emotions seething inside of him.

“What’s wrong with being good?” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have the power to make me feel bad about the things I’ve done. That isn’t natural.”

“Wouldn’t you rather do things that don’t hurt to think about?”

The heat of his breath touched her ear and the rest of her body heated in response. He was so close, pressed against her, his body hard and tight with muscle and aggression.

“I will never be a good man, Lydia.” The declaration lacked his usual confidence but it was a statement. He believed it, and that’s why he wouldn’t admit to the guilt. Because he knew that, once he started, he’d never be able to stop piling it up.

And who was she to judge? The things she’d stooped to, before she’d known about werewolves and ley lines and freaking nemetons, weren’t anything to be proud of. She’d pretended she was all that, while shame at being revealed for what she was had made her act more and more ridiculous. At least things were honest between her and Peter. Fucked up but honest.

“So then.” She licked her lips, and arched up, pressing herself against him. “Be bad. Be yourself.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed distance, needed to regain his equilibrium. She was temptation incarnate, and everything about her – from the fire of her hair to the scent of her pale skin – was a reminder of how different they were. He’d thought he could take her, make her his. If she kept pushing, she’d wear him down. Even now that stubborn little chin was lifting.

“You don’t want that. You want to be one of the good guys.” Peter’s tone hardened and turned mocking. He needed to push her away, even as he couldn’t quite move away from her. “Running all over Beacon Hills, trying to save everybody. Even if they deserve their fate. But you never quite get there in time, do you?”

She stiffened, her eyes darkening in warning. Those lush lips pursed, making him want to nip at them.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” she bit out.

“I’m not. We’re talking about _us_. You’re part of us.” He gave her a cool grin, and let the light come to his eyes. “And that is what you do, with your pack. Do you think I make sense, in a pack like that?”

He needed distance, needed to regain his equilibrium. She was temptation incarnate, and everything about her – from the fire of her hair to the scent of her pale skin – was a reminder of how different they were. He’d thought he could take her, make her his. If she kept pushing, she’d wear him down. Even now that stubborn little chin was lifting.

She crossed her arms without retreating, and Peter clicked his tongue, like Talia used to do when one of the pups made a mistake. Lydia’s eyes narrowed further at the condescension.

“Sweetheart, you play the heavyweight. But compared to me you’re made of glass. It’ll take a few more years, and a few more tragedies before you’ll grow into anything like a contender.”

Her eyes flitted away from him, and when she looked back, her smile was equal parts sweet and wicked.

“I can’t stand up to you,” she said. “And that’s why you’re pushing me away. That’s what you’re saying?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Yes. I am.” She jerked her head, as though motioning someone onward.

Hands clamped around Peter’s biceps, or something that felt like hands. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t smell anything, but _something_ restrained him. He roared, throwing one hand off only to have it grab his throat. Red rolled across his vision.

“No,” Lydia cried out. “Not there.”

The hand disappeared before closing around his wrist. Four hands. Two people, two ghosts. Under Lydia’s command. Peter roared again before dropping his head back and chuckling. Caught, by her puppets. God, the tricks she conjured up out of nothing.

The hands didn’t loosen, but they weren’t doing anything other than holding him now. He was still tense, but managed not to fight them. This wasn’t an attack. This was Lydia testing her strength. What banshee had ever been this brave?

Her eyes were round, white showing all around the deep green. She didn’t know whether they could hold him but she had to know he wouldn’t like being restrained. If he wanted to, he could throw them off, probably.

Banshees wailed for the dead. They were attracted to the dead. But down here, in the land of the dead, nobody knew how powerful they could be. How many souls could Lydia Martin command, if she really wanted something? How far would she be willing to go? And what was that power worth?

“You minx,” he rasped through his fanged teeth.

“We need to talk,” she said, her voice steady though she was breathing hard. “And neither one of us is leaving until we do.”

Peter leaned forward, inhaling deeply and putting his teeth within a few inches of her flushed cheek.

“Are you so confident that your slaves can keep me?”

In his peripheral vision, Peter saw her hand rise before Lydia made a fist and forced it back to her side. Even now, with him as monstrous as she’d ever seen him, she was able to stand her ground. She had to stop herself from reaching for him. She wanted him – not because of any compulsion – and the power of that realization shook through him and left him feeling confused and weak.

“They aren’t slaves. We made a deal, is all. And yes, I think I can keep you.”

“Lydia.”

The door flew open, slamming against the wall on a blast of air. Peter tore loose and pulled Lydia behind him. His bones crackled, lengthening and strengthening. His claws slid longer and sharper and his vision narrowed, showing him the aura of the creature that strode through the door.

But it didn’t matter. Even if he were still an alpha he never would have been able to stand up to Hades on his home ground. But for the human clutching at his back, he would try.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whatever you’re doing to her, stop it,” Peter growled, the sound reverberating through his body and into hers.
> 
> “This is my domain,” Hades said. “The living do not belong.”

The air rippled around Hades, dark currents that make Lydia want to squint but didn’t feel particularly menacing. Whatever was happening outside was a different story. As Hades had appeared, a massive group of souls had descended on the shack. They weren’t screaming – they didn’t quite feel like human souls – but the sound of so many voices inside of her head was chaotic and distracting.

“You’ve agitated the denizens of this place,” Hades said. Those odd flames leapt in the fireplace when he spoke.

“I was dragged here,” Peter ground out. “I’m not disruptive when I’m left where I want to be.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but Lydia wasn’t about to let Hades see her roll her eyes. They needed to show a united front, she and Peter. To be a team, a partnership, especially since something was happening outside that was hammering at her banshee senses. She flinched when the sensation increased, and Peter reached back. His hand wrapped around her hip, hot, the tips of his claws just digging in.

“I am not talking about you,” Hades said. He didn’t roll his eyes either, but then he might not know about things like that. “Banshee, do you know how many wraiths have gathered outside these meager walls?”

Ah, that’s what they were. The half-formed scavengers.

“Hundreds,” Lydia muttered, shrugging one slim shoulder when Peter shot her a narrow glance. “They like my hair.”

“And then there is the small matter of you driving spirits to attack my guardians. For such a small thing, you inspire a lot of trouble.”

“I’m not looking for it, I promise.”

“But it finds you all the same.” Hades smiled, but there was nothing reassuring in the expression. “Over and over again. No matter what line you choose to walk, you will never escape trouble.”

Lydia’s breath froze in her lungs. That’s how it had felt, these last few months, as everyone changed around her and new, elusive truths established themselves at Beacon Hills. As people left, and as they were killed.

“I have access to the memories of the dead,” he said, surprising her by explaining how he was able to name this force affecting her. “When I want them. Your friend, the hunter. You were close.”

“We were.” Past tense. Allison would only ever be past tense now. A fresh wave of grief rolled over Lydia. Those few hours with her had felt so natural, so normal, even if nothing about the situation was normal.

“You shared many experiences. Recent experiences.”

“Yes.” Her voice withered beneath the strain of feelings. They had shared a lot of experiences. But she hadn’t been there when Allison died. She’d been the cause, the reason that Allison went out that night. But she hadn’t been there when her best friend died.

The steel of Peter’s shoulder tensed further beneath her hands, and Lydia wanted to bend her head to let it rest against him. She was tired of all this trouble, tired of always running but never arriving in time. If she closed her eyes for long enough, maybe things would be normal again when she woke.

“Whatever you’re doing to her, stop it,” Peter growled, the sound reverberating through his body and into hers.

“This is my domain,” Hades said. “The living do not belong.”

Muscles tensed beneath Lydia’s hands, then Peter was gone from her touch. He sprang forward, lowering into a crouch as he drove forward. Hades lifted a single hand and the dark ripples around him exploded into slick, sharp-angled creatures. Black as obsidian, they met Peter in the middle of the floor. His arms swung, shredding the creatures and shooting slivers of them into the walls. They thunked into the wood like darts, then liquefied and dribbled to the ground. Immediately they ran back to the group slashing at Peter, reattaching.

Except for the parts that landed in or near the fire. Those turned to ash, and didn’t move again. Lydia glanced at Hades, who merely walked around the skirmish. He wasn’t barking orders to kill Peter, and the creatures didn’t seem to be trying to do anything other than contain him. The god was powerful enough to kill the both of them in an instant, she suspected. So the guardians were only meant to contain, or distract, Peter. Still, an infinite soldier would eventually win. And he was bleeding from a dozen scratches and a few deeper cuts. As subtly as she could, she tilted her head toward the fire before returning her focus to Hades.

“Why are you doing this?” Lydia asked, wincing when the wraiths began to throw themselves at the walls and ceiling. Tendrils seeped through the gaps and drafts in the boards, forming hands that groped blindly, reaching for her. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the still-growing flames. Hades regarded her with dark, still eyes.

“This is my territory and order must be maintained.”

“You invited me.”

Peter threw off a large part of the mass and it crashed into the ground, throwing up dust. His eyes, brilliant blue, met hers and she glanced pointedly at the fire again. He followed the direction of her gaze, then smirked. The expression chilled her as much as everything else going on. It was the old him, confident and coldly delighted, even reveling in the wrongness of what was happening.

“And had I brought you over,” Hades continued, not even turning around as Peter flung himself around, tossing some of the creatures into the flame. Smoke rose, filling the room. “I would have taken precautions so that you would not be affected. But you crossed over illicitly, in an unwatched place. What scheme were the two of you trying to pull off?”

He crossed the space between them in an instant, and Lydia flinched when he lifted her chin. His hand was cold and hard as marble.

“There’s no scheme,” she said. “I thought it was an open invitation. I only meant to get him and return.”

“Why would you rescue him?” Hades asked. “You fear and despise him.”

Her mouth opened but too many words leapt forward for her to single any out. She didn’t. Or, she did, but not as with the same vicious depths as before. And not all the time. He didn’t know what the imprint of his bite had done to her mind, how her resistance to his influence had ratcheted the battle between his will – the will of a power-hungry alpha at the time – and hers had nearly driven her crazy. He wasn’t the same man as then. But sometimes – he tore through another clump of the creatures, blood streaking his face – she thought it wouldn’t take much for him to revert to that.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “But not so complicated that I could leave him here for who knows what to happen.”

Her head swam again. She touched her forehead, nearly tipping over when her balance shifted. Hades appeared at her side and escorted her a chair that was miraculously untouched. She dropped into it, her shoulder smacking against the overturned table. Behind her, Peter roared, the power of the sound giving her the strength to raise her drooping eyelids.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“The living do not belong here,” Hades said, not ungently. “A human cannot survive the underworld for long, and yours is more in tune with death than most.”

“What?”

“I could have sent a hundred soldiers to track you and never found you, this land is so vast and…complicated. Instead, all I had to do was wait.”

“For what?”

“Your death.”

“No.”

She refused to accept his statement. Peter heard it though, and this time his roar shook the ground itself. Boards broke high in a corner, separating the wall from the ceiling, and a throng of wraiths spiraled in.

“I found your answers,” Lydia shouted over the sound that exploded in her mind as they spotted their target. They were ravenous, beyond hungry. She covered her ears, even though it did nothing to relieve the onslaught. “I’ll tell you. Just help us to leave!”

Peter tore loose, his eyes gleaming. He leapt, arms rising to strike. There was no way Hades would overlook a second attack, especially not in his own land.

“Peter, no!” Lydia forced herself to her feet, holding her breath until Peter landed in a crouch, inches short of Hades. Deep shadows lengthened his jaw and darkened his eyes. His claws scraped the dirt, then he rose slowly.

“He is killing you,” Peter ground out.

“Time is killing you,” Hades said mildly. “Tell me what you have learned. If it is equal to your infractions, you may leave.”

“The wraiths are-” Lydia collapsed.


	22. Chapter 22

Peter’s arms tightened around Lydia as spirits pulled at her body. It wasn’t the two she’d commanded earlier, or it wasn’t only them. They were strong, plucking at her hair and clothes, tugging at her arms and legs. The force of caging her would bruise her, but he wasn’t about to let her go.

“Fix her,” he shouted.

Hades stood over him, hands clasped behind him, as smoke filled the small space. Real smoke from the fire that was suddenly a searing orange and red.

“There is nothing to fix,” the god said, his eyes tracking movement all around Lydia. “It is the natural progression of things. The living come to the land of the dead, and they…adapt. Banshees are already attuned, and the one is particularly sensitive. It makes sense that she would change over quickly.”

No stars or planets rotated overhead in the underworld, but power ran through Peter’s body as though the full moon was cresting the horizon. Lydia’s bag with the portal apples lay on the other side of the cabin. They weren’t an exact science. Even if Hades allowed Peter to get to them, he couldn’t beam her back to Earth and safety. But a god…a god could do anything.

“Take it away from her,” Peter said. “Her banshee powers. Take them so that I have time to get her back.”

“For what reason?”

“So that she can live!”

“That makes her no more valuable.”

Not to him. But to Peter, her life meant so much. She was so gorgeous it made him nervous to look at her. She was intelligent, passionate, and so, so strong. Lydia had survived him at his worst, and she was damn well going to survive everything that came after. She wouldn’t have it any other way, and he wouldn’t allow anything less. Except he was alone, in a hostile place. He was alone in Beacon Hills as well, but at least there were people there who cared about Lydia, who would help _her_ even if they didn’t like him.

He was the worst kind of poison, but he wasn’t selfless enough to walk away.

His hands were all claws and rage, but he couldn’t let go of her. Not when the spirits were pulling at her, not when the color was leaching out of her hair before his eyes. He shook her, a new kind of anger rising and clearing the red from his field of vision.

“No.” The plea tore from his throat. “No, you can’t leave me, Lydia. I want you to stay, so you will stay, damn it!”

“And I’ve been told I’m bad at courtship,” Hades murmured dryly.

Peter shook her again, growling as gray began to creep across her temples toward her eyes.

“You turned me inside out and made me feel again. You make me hurt, so you can’t leave. You have to stay. Stay and suffer with me, Lydia.” He brushed her hair back, his growl fading into a whine as black bled across her eyelids.

“I’ll make you happy, too. I’ll give it to you, all that happiness you missed. All the happiness you deserve.”

He should have taken her straight to a portal, Cerberus be damned. She was fading. She was _leaving_ him. It wasn’t fair. He’d gotten better. What would he be without her? A creature of regret and anger. He would go mad again, fall back on old habits and lose himself in the oblivion of destruction until a hunter got a lucky shot in.

“Your hunter is causing more trouble,” Hades said, the words surreally overlapping Peter’s thoughts.

“She’s not mine,” Peter muttered.

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

The god was gone before the last word faded, and Peter’s head snapped up as the door cracked against the frame. The insistent pulling stopped, and the lack of resistance rocked him forward. He clutched Lydia against him, cradling her head and leaning it gently against his shoulder as he stood.

“Sorry about all the blood, sweetheart.”

But she didn’t answer, even though she hated when he called her that. He reached into the bag, rolling the apples against each other, trying to discern the sounds.

“I’m going to take us home, Lydia. I’m going to take us home and you’re going to get better.”

Damn it, they all sounded the same, all high-pitched with a timbre that made him want to wince. But he didn’t want to jostle her, didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But she was so still.

Peter stopped, bowing his head against hers and listening to the dim sound of her heartbeat.

“Please. Sweetheart, please. Just stay with me a little longer.”

The fire roared, and he spun, wrapping himself around her as flames engulfed the building. Oddly, the heat didn’t hurt.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no point to pretending that things were anything other than uncertain and scary. But she could still navigate. She could still figure her way through. Starting with the man waiting for her downstairs.

Lydia woke slowly, her head full of fuzz and blank spaces. She must have gotten into her mom’s wine stash – what was left of it. She shifted, and the surface beneath her shifted as well. The surface that was firmer than her bed, and rougher than her sheets. It was also emitting a lot of heat. She looked up, blinking against the brilliance of a pair of half-lidded blue eyes.

Peter, holding her while she slept.

She shot upright, one hand raised to ward off…nothing. No ghouls, no gods, none of that lifeless gray. They were back at the lake house, on the couch in front of the dying fire.

“Lydia?” he asked, sounding surprised. She shoved her tangled hair away from her face.

“Why do you sound like that? Did you not know who you were holding?”

“I knew.”

As the blue faded in his eyes she could see the bruising around them. And the scraps and cuts, half-healed and angry, on his arms and neck. It all came back to her, the dark and the cold, Allison – she pressed a hand against the ache in her stomach – and Hades. The god’s voice had slipped into her mind as she wavered between life and death. It had been calm, almost comforting, and richer the closer she got to him. But it hadn’t been the voice she’d wanted to hear, and she’d spilled the secrets of his errant citizens and demanded he send them back immediately. It had been a surprise that a being of such power could also be forthright, but then most of the powerful creatures she’d encountered had also been insane.

He’d transported them back to the Earthly plane in an instant, but not before Peter had started to crack. She’d heard the strain of feeling in every word, the desperate of every syllable. And the necklace she wore ensured she would never forget. How long had she waited for someone to know her, to love her for what she was? Despite, now, what she was?

And what kind of cosmic joke was it that he was the one?

She squirmed out from under a thick throw blanket and his hands, which were slightly more difficult to remove.

“Lydia.”

“I need to get cleaned up.”

And away from him. She couldn’t handle him in such a raw state, not knowing that he was going to revert back. He’d start smiling again, then smirking. Teasing, but never talking. He’d go away again, and she’d be left with the perfect memory of this one time when he actually felt something for her.

She climbed the stairs in a daze and stepped into the shower, too numb to really tell if it was hot or cold. She expected the fine silt of the underworld to rain off of her. But none of it had come back with them. How was that possible? She’d gone to an entirely _other_ universe and none of it had come back with her. She’d almost died there, the strange land sapping her vitality with each step on the uneven ground, with each breath of the not-quite-air. The experience had almost killed her, but it would be invisible to everyone else. Her mother wouldn’t know. Her friends would listen to her. Stiles would probably even be upset, tenderly indignant that he hadn’t been there for her, until he got distracted again.

Allison might not even remember it. She’d move through that endless twilight, becoming sharper and shadowier, and probably thrilling in it. And Lydia would be stuck here, having to suck it up and forge ahead even though she had no idea what she was doing.

She raised her face to the spray, turning the water until it was almost burning hot. If only she could wash it all away… And then what? Go back to what she had been? Pretending to be stupid and laughing at boys’ dumb jokes? Study for SATs and pretend the world wasn’t stranger and crueler than she’d ever imagined?

No, she couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t. There was no point to pretending that things were anything other than uncertain and scary. But she could still navigate. She could still figure her way through. Starting with the man waiting for her downstairs.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what happens to a more mature werewolf who ends up alone?” she asked, tilting her head. Oh, he should have seen that question coming, should have sensed her setup and deflected it.
> 
> Lydia and Peter have a long overdue talk.

Lydia’s nails scraped against the railing as she descended the stairs. There was an unmistakable determination in the slap of her feet against the hardwood floor. The sound of a banshee on the warpath, a glorious sound. Peter smiled to himself, intercepting her as she rounded the corner into the kitchen.

“Hot chocolate?” he asked.

She jerked to a stop, whatever speech she’d planned dying on her tongue as she looked back and forth between the steaming mug he held out to her and the food he’d laid out.

Tossing her hair back, Lydia shook her head.

“No. We need to talk.” But her eyes strayed to the food.

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other.” Peter set the mug on the center island and touched her back, urging her onto a stool. “We were down there a long time. You must be hungry.”

She smelled good, clean and slightly floral. Heat radiated from her skin, and the thought of her wearing nothing but steam was intoxicating. Her damp hair hung almost to her hips. Her oversized sweater had fallen off of one shoulder as bare as her slim legs inside of silky shorts. A loose, thick top but lots of skin, like she couldn’t decide whether to hide herself from him or not. He understood the depths of that uncertainty. Forcing himself away from her, he circled to face her.

“Are you dizzy?” he asked.

Frowning, she shook her head.

“It can be an aftereffect,” he explained.

“Of going to the underworld, or of nearly dying there?”

“Of going.” His pulse sped up at thought of her body hanging limp in his arms. Dead weight, her vitality fading away. He cleared his throat and pushed the thought away, focusing on something concrete and distant. “Something about the place leaches minerals from the body, creating an electrolyte imbalance.”

“Ooh, horrible scenery _and_ the possibility of dizziness, organ failure, and cardiac arrest. I’m surprised it’s not a number one vacation destination.” Lydia wrapped her hands around the mug and pulled it close. Her eyes half-closed as she inhaled the rich steam.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said. He hid the question in his words too well, apparently, as Lydia sipped but did not say anything.

He pushed a plate toward her and leaned down on his elbows, putting them at eye level. She picked up a sandwich and took a bite before meeting his gaze.

“And you didn’t have to attack a god and anger his vengeful wife.”

“That is…true.”

“God, I haven’t been this hungry since junior high.” She gulped the hot chocolate and he slid his still-full mug toward her.

“What happened in junior high?”

“Mom mentioned I was getting pudgy. I stopped eating for a few months.”

The spoon in his hand bent in half as he made a fist. Lydia shrugged one shoulder.

“It was a phase. Eventually I talked myself out of it.”

“You know, it’s things like that that make me wish we were fully integrated with humankind. I would love to see someone try to inflict those pointless, arbitrary standards on Cora.”

“Cora is so angry,” Lydia said. “Like Derek used to be. Walking around, not just ready to snap. They’re waiting for something to set them off. But you were the one in the fire, and you don’t walk around bristling like that.”

He straightened, wanting to give a flippant answer or deflect her. But she was well and it was just the two of them. There was no threat bearing down on them, and her friends weren’t around to glare and sling insults at him. It was a perfect moment, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

“Wolves aren’t meant to be alone, not even werewolves. When you’re young you’re constantly worried, always looking up to check on a more experienced packmate – to know you’re okay. You worry about losing control in front of someone or being caught by hunters. The instinct, if you find yourself alone, is to make yourself look dangerous so that others will leave you alone. That’s what you’re seeing, but distorted. After awhile, without a place of safety and comfort to return to – without reassurance – that becomes their dominant instinct.”

“And what happens to a more mature werewolf who ends up alone?” she asked, tilting her head. Oh, he should have seen that question coming, should have sensed her setup and deflected it.

“It depends on how he came to be that way. He’ll find another pack, make his own if he’s alpha. If he can achieve a full animal form, he’ll probably spend most of his time like that. It’s easier. The beast isn’t interesting in dwelling on loneliness.” Peter focused on bending the spoon back into shape, ignoring the rising howl inside of him, the churn of memories.

“You didn’t find another pack.”

“And I couldn’t change.” He forced a smile, but the muscles of his face were too tense to make it convincing. His memories were full of weakness, reminding him of his desperation and his wretched, twisted climb out of it. His fingers pressed against his palm, the sore spot where Persephone had pierced him with the splinter from the chair. Maybe she’d done him a favor. Maybe Hades would trade him for a bigger piece.

“Peter.”

He lifted his head, and it wandered back and forth in involuntary denial. If he forgot what he’d done, he would forget her. That soft, pale skin. Those big, bright eyes and the mind behind them. The heart inside of her. He scrubbed a hand over his face and smiled at her hand, moving restlessly on the counter.

“What was it you wanted to say when you came down here?” he asked.

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t take the change in direction. Her green eyes narrowed and her lips twisted into a bright pink bud. He was tempted just to kiss her, to grab hold of her and try to drown himself in her. But there were things we wanted to say, too, if he could.

She straightened her napkin and plate, then her shoulders softened.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. “Why did you attack Hades?”

“Do I have to have an ulterior motive for everything I do?”

“Isn’t your life a web of ulterior motives?”

“No.”

“You’re just straight as an arrow.”

“Yes.”

“Always forthright? Always honest? Never cryptic. Never hiding anything or lashing out.” Her voice rose, tightening, the tone getting under his skin in an unpleasant way.

“Not when it comes to you,” he said over her, closing his eyes so that he could get the words out. “Everything has become much simpler with you.”

He reached for her, finding her inevitably. He’d walked toward her in the underworld, with no hope that she was even on that plane of existence. If they were in the same building, he’d have been able to find her blind. Even when his mind cracked and sent him spinning, he could always point himself toward her. He wrapped his hand around hers, moving more slowly when she twitched. Her lips parted when his fingers stroked her palm, then slid up the underside of her wrist.

“There aren’t many people who have ever held my affection, Lydia. Being sibling to an alpha means that people will evaluate their every interaction with you and your every movement. It’s not a great environment to foster strong feelings, other than the impulse to deceive. And since then…well, I was full of a lot of emotions but none of them were what you’d call endearing.”

Peter opened his eyes, a thrill going through him at the feel of her blood quickening. He cupped her hand in both of his.

“I adore you, Lydia. I could never have imagined anyone as strong as you, as intelligent and fiercely relentless as you. The others have the sun, the moon, and the truth. I don’t require a mantra, and I don’t need a pack. But I do want you, and I believe that you want me, too. Do you think that – us – is something that can happen?”

He held his breath as the flush rose up her cheeks and down her neck. Her heart pounded, and he could barely hear it over the drum of his own. She wasn’t scared. He noted that, then hated that he had. But it was important.

“You didn’t say I was beautiful,” she said, her voice airy. “Men usually start with that.”

“I’m not another man to you, Lydia. Don’t you see?” He squeezed her hand, willing her to focus on him, to understand. “I’m yours.”

She shook her head, a low noise escaping her throat. And then she grabbed him, her fingernails sharp against the back of his neck as she pulled his head down and kissed him. He’d thought he wanted to drown in her, and the way she was clutching at him, she had the same idea. He wrapped an arm around her slim waist and pulled her to her feet. Her nails bit deeper and he pulled her harder against him.

He’d told her, offered the admission of his heart, and she felt the same. Now they were pressed together, mouths tangled, her hands riding over his shoulders and chest. Everything was so perfect that he could ignore the sounds coming from outside, the footsteps through the gravel, the pound of boots on the porch.

Lydia jerked when the doorbell rang. She didn’t let go, one hand wrapped around his neck, the other stroking him through the slashes in his shirt. But she turned away, panting as she stared at the silhouette through the pebbled glass.


End file.
